


I Will Hang My Head Low

by andimeantittosting (Saylee)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairytale/Folktale, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Castiel's True Form (Supernatural), Castiel's Wings, Dean Winchester Prays to Castiel, Dean/Cas Big Bang, Decemberists' Crane Wife, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Sick Castiel, temporary major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-11-07 17:29:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20821100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saylee/pseuds/andimeantittosting
Summary: Dean Winchester gave up hunting when his brother became the prophesied Boy King of Hell. Now he ekes out a meager living, chopping wood for a nearby village, until one snowy night, he follows what appears to be a falling star, and encounters an injured angel. Afterwards, he tries to put the strange night from his mind.When he meets Castiel, a mysterious man with healing powers, they form an instant connection, and the more Dean learns of Castiel's powers—to heal, to protect, to purify—the more he begins to hope that Sam can be saved. But as they prepare to save Sam, Castiel grows sick, and then sicker still. Too late, Dean learns how much Castiel is willing to sacrifice for him.Inspired by the Decemberists' Crane Wife and the Japanese myth on which it is based.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Dean/Cas Big Bang 2019.
> 
> I'm so pleased to finally be able to share this fic with you, not to mention the lovely art from the wonderful [Correlia](https://correlia-be.tumblr.com/)! Correlia has been an awesome partner on this, and you should absolutely go leave some love on the [Art Masterpost.](https://correlia-be.tumblr.com/post/188510789546/i-will-hang-my-head-low-summary-dean-winchester)
> 
> I would like to thank Muse and Diamond for all their hard work moderating this challenge, and I owe a huge amount of gratitude to [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses), who has been alpha, beta, and cheerleader to this story, as well as a wonderful friend.
> 
> This story is inspired by the Decemberists' Crane Wife (all three parts of it), and the quotes at the beginning of each chapter are lyrics from the song. I have been wanting to write a Destiel fic based on this song since Season 10, and I'm so happy to have finally done so, and hope this does it justice. I highly recommend you listen to it.  
**[Crane Wife 1 and 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z3cp8LERM70)**  
**[Crane Wife 3](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rwQ1WF2jWQI)**

_ **And all the stars were crashing round as I lay eyes on what I’d found** _

_Once upon a time, a young huntsman lost his wife to a demon. In his grief, he dedicated his life to hunting down the evil creatures of the world. _

_The huntsman had two young sons, and rather than leave them to be cared for by someone who was not blood, he brought them with him on his quest. At first he would leave them in whichever inn or hovel they had taken shelter in, and then as they grew older, he would bring them along and teaching them to hunt._

_While, for many years of his life, the elder boy worshipped his father and obeyed him in all matters, the younger brother was rebellious and resentful of their unsettled lifestyle. Nonetheless, the elder son dedicated his life to the care and raising of his younger brother, doing all in his power to ensure that he would grow up strong and clever and good, and he did._

_Unbeknownst to the brothers, however, dark forces were at work, for the younger brother was the long prophesied Boy King of Hell, and the infernal powers would not be deterred from their purpose: to see him take his rightful place on the throne and spread their dark influence throughout the world. _

Dean has banked the fire for the night and is preparing to crawl beneath his scratchy wool blanket when a bright light flares outside his tiny window and around the cracks of the door. He hurries to lift the latch and stick his head outside into the icy air in time to watch a blinding, burning ball of light fall from the sky and land among the distant trees with a thud that shakes the ground and rattles the walls of Dean’s tiny cabin.

Has a star fallen?

With a frown, Dean hurries to pull on his trousers and shove his feet into his boots. He dons his shirt over his warm undershirt and adds his heavy coat. He is still wrapping a heavy wool scarf around his neck as he steps out the door. He fetches his axe from the wood pile stacked outside before heading out into the dark, frigid woods.

The light of the full moon barely filters through the dense branches overhead, but Dean knows these woods well. He spends long days within them, chopping trees to sell as firewood, and the forest has been as much of a home to him as his rough cabin. As much of a home to him as he’s ever had.

He’s lived here for three years. Ever since Sam—

But he won’t think about Sam.

There is an eerie glow ahead of him, a faint, bluish light turning the trees into dark silhouettes. A noise like the moan of the wind through the trees floats to his ears, but the night is still. Tightening his grip on his axe, he creeps forward towards the light.

Suddenly, the woods give way to a clearing that has never existed before. Ancient elms and firs lie strewn across the ground like so many matchsticks. And there, in the centre of the devastation, lies the source of the glow.

With trepidation, Dean approaches the figure. It is humanoid, he realizes as he gets closer, though it gives off a sense of being much larger than it is. The bluish glow is coming from its skin itself. There are four faces, flawless and uncanny and beautiful. Most arresting of all, however, are the giant feathery wings that arch out of its back and splay across the ground. They are easily each twice the creature’s height, blue like a jay’s, and radiating an intense power that draws Dean in, even as his heart races and his palms sweat.

He has never seen a creature like this before, no one has in centuries, but he knows instinctively what he is looking at.

_Angel._

As he draws nearer, a twig from one of the fallen trees snaps beneath his foot, and the angel raises its head, limpid blue eyes blinking open and alighting on Dean. It makes a piteous noise, then, and Dean recognizes the sound that he thought was the wind, even as he sees the source of the creature’s distress.

One of those great wings is bent at an unnatural angle, an iron arrow embedded through the flesh. Silver light is seeping from the wound and some distant part of Dean realizes that it must be the angel’s blood.

The angel moans again, the mournful sound shivering and rattling its way down Dean’s spine.

“Okay,” he says. “Alright. I’m just gonna—I’m not gonna hurt you.” He inches closer to the site of the injury.

The angel makes no move to stop him, simply watching him with four sets of unblinking eyes. It makes another shiver roll down his spine, different from the one caused by the creature’s pained noises.

Dropping to his knees beside the magnificent appendage, he shuffles forward, muttering half to himself, “Just gonna take a look, now.”

As if it understands him, the angel attempts to raise the wing towards him, breaking off the movement with a sound of anguish that Dean can feel in his bones.

“You’re alright,” he soothes the creature. “Don’t try to move. I’ll come to you.” Oh so gently, he draws the damaged limb into his lap so he can examine it closer.

As he thought, the arrow is demonic in origin, covered over in runes he does not recognize. They must be meant to harm the angel, who is in more agony than even an arrow wound and a broken wing should cause. Already, the glow coming from its skin is beginning to dim. Dean grips the arrow firmly and uses the knife he always keeps in his belt to quickly strip away the fletching. “Brace yourself,” he warns, lifting the wing so he can grasp the arrow from the underside.

There is another keening cry, bell-like and terrible, as he yanks the arrow out, and the angel thrashes, buffeting him with its wings.

“Whoa,” he cries out, scrambling out of it’s way. “Easy. The arrow’s gone. I’ve just got to—” but before he can search around for a way to bandage the wound, the ragged hole begins closing before his eyes. “Well, that’s one way to do that.” He huffs a dazed chuckle. “Doesn’t look like the break’s healing so easily, though. Let me make a splint?”

The angel makes an acquiescent noise, so he gets to work. With all the trees felled during the angel’s crash landing, it’s short work to make a splint to brace the injury. Dean considers using his scarf to wrap the wing, but there’s no way it would be long enough on its own. He sheds his coat and shirt, and then quickly shrugs back into the coat, buttoning it against the cold. The shirt he cuts into strips with his knife. Using these and the scarf, he binds the wing to hold it immobile, careful to keep the wing bent. He wraps the makeshift bandage in a figure eight, the angel docile while he works, only making the occasional low, pained noise.

His work finished, he climbs to his feet, and holds out a hand to help the angel up. It comes with him, but its balance is thrown off by the splinted wing and Dean has to catch it around it’s upper arms. They stand there, too close, and Dean meets its eyes as it blinks down at him, its four faces tilting as if curious. Dean stares back, heart in his throat.

At long last, the angel reaches out a long-fingered hand to Dean’s forehead and suddenly he is gone from the clearing, standing bewildered just inside the door to his own little house. The embers of the fire are still glowing and when he checks, the brick he’d slipped beneath his blankets is still warm. It’s as though he’d never left. In a daze, he sheds his outer layers, noting that his shirt is indeed still missing.

He shakes his head to clear it, and when nothing changes, climbs into bed. He expects to be up for a long, long time, but instead falls asleep the moment his head lands upon his thin pillow. His dreams are filled with endless blue, and when he wakes up, he cannot be sure if he imagined any of it.

Dean has a routine. Every day, he wakes with the cold fingers of dawn, shovels down a bowl of oatmeal, then dons boots and coat and scarf—a rough, inadequate scarf that does little to replace the one that is now gone—and heads outside to check his snares. Once he has dealt with anything he may have trapped, he shoulders his axe and heads out into the woods.

He doesn’t want to think too hard about his strange encounter, but he is too practical a man to ignore an entire clearing of already felled trees just waiting to be chopped into firewood. Still, he keeps a wary eye on his surroundings as he works. There’s something about the air of the clearing that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The work itself is mind-numbing, however, and each day slips away in the dull, repetitive _thunk _of his axe against drying wood.

He hauls the wood back to the house as the sun sets each evening, feet crunching in the icy glaze that has covered the snow, and eats a solitary meal—a stew made of what game he has managed to trap if he’s lucky, and of what roots he has stored if he is not. He sleeps early in the winter, not wanting to waste candles whiling away the long, dark hours of the evening. The cabin is always cold in the winter, her sturdy wooden walls not enough to keep out the sharp chill of the air, but Dean has slept in worse conditions. The ache of his muscles and the bite of the air pull him to sleep. He doesn’t think about Sam. He doesn’t think about the angel.

One day each week, he loads up a sledge with the wood he has chopped. He doesn’t keep a horse or an ox to help him, so he hauls it the mile and a half into the nearest village himself. He makes his rounds, knocking on cottage doors and delivering loads of firewood in exchange for a few coins. He speaks a few words with old man Turner, who had sold Dean his house in order to move closer to the comforts of town, and exchanges a commiserating look with Rowena McLeod as a crash sounds from her workroom. She hands him a few coins and whisks back into her house, calling, “I swear to God, Fergus, if you have smashed Mummy’s ingredients again, I will sell you for pigs.”

His last stop is the local tavern, which takes the largest delivery, in order to heat the cozy taproom, as well as the guest rooms upstairs and the family apartments. He accepts Mistress Harvelle’s payment, and immediately flips a coin back to her, as he does every week.

“I’ll take a plate of whatever you’re serving and a tankard of ale.”

As she does every week, Ellen Harvelle flips the coin back to him. “The meal is part of your payment, and you well know it. Sit yourself down and warm up, and your food will be ready before you can spit. I’ve got a nice roast of beef tonight, which you’ll well enjoy.”

It’s been a long time since Dean’s had any meat beyond small game, and his stomach rumbles in agreement. “You’re too good to me, Ellen.”

“You know it.” She fills a tankard with ale and shoos him off to the table closest to the fire. “Joanna will be right out with your meal.”

Sure enough, Joanna Harvelle emerges from the kitchen with a plate heaped high with meat and vegetables and gravy. Dean’s stomach leaps at the aroma. “Well, if it isn’t Dean Winchester,” she greets, but there’s a small smile on her lips. She places the plate in front of him, and gathers up her skirts to join him on the rough-hewn bench. She looks tidy and sensible, but as always, there’s a gleam in her eyes that says she would much rather be out facing the monsters of the world than quietly serving meals in her mother’s tavern. She had been unimpressed when he'd given up hunting and retreated to his cabin to lick his wounds.

"All the more reason to let me get out there and hunt," she had argued to her mother, while Dean had hunched over his bowl, feeling battered and bruised, despite the lack of marks on him. It was the first place he'd come after losing Sam. When he'd announced his intention to retire from hunting, Ellen had taken it in stride, merely placing a hearty meal before him, but Joanna had taken it as an opportunity to convince her mother she ought to become a hunter.

"Absolutely not," had been Ellen's firm response, as it was every time. "I already lost your father to hunting. I will not lose you, too."

Joanna had stormed off in a huff, then, but in the years since, her determination has not waned. Dean sees it in the tilt of her chin and the clench of her hand, even as they talk of innocuous things. He doesn't dare encourage her, not only out of fear of Ellen's reprisal, but because he, too, cannot lose anyone else to hunting.

It’s an ordinary day some weeks later when Dean is set upon in the woods by demons. He’d know what they were by their sulfur stink and black eyes alone, but the one inhabiting a male vessel still grins a feral grin as he informs Dean, “We’re just here as a gift from your brother.”

Dean snarls and lunges at them with the demon-killing knife he still keeps in his boot, and the one wearing a woman jumps back with a hiss. He begins chanting an exorcism.

In the end, it’s not much of a fight, though the one wearing the woman does manage to land a significant slash on his upper arm before he sends them back to Hell. They’re among the lowest levels of demons, vicious but weak. He’d almost be insulted that this is the caliber of attack his brother sends after him, but he’s certain that Sam intended this as a message, rather than a serious threat. It’s a reminder of Dean’s failure. A reminder that his younger brother sits on the throne, the Boy King of Hell.

The man and woman the demons were wearing are slumped on the ground. Dean checks them, but as is the way with demons, their victims have long succumbed to their injuries, and their bodies are just that, bodies. With a resigned sigh, Dean sets about using the wood he’s chopped to build up a pyre.

He heaves the bodies on top, heedless of the blood that is still dripping from his arm to stain the snow, and lights it. As they burn, he bows his head for the nameless man and woman, listening to the crackle of the flames as they consume the bodies.

When he looks up, there is a man looking at him through the flames.

He startles, going instinctively for the knife in his boot again, but the man merely regards him with steady blue eyes, tilting his head in curiosity. Dean is arrested. The man seems to come to a decision and nods, circling the fire to stand in front of Dean. This close, his eyes are even more intense. Dean feels as if he’s peering straight into his soul. There’s no sulfur smell, no smell at all except for something cold and fresh like the wind. Not a demon then.

Without speaking a word, the man lifts his hand and presses it to the still sluggishly bleeding wound on Dean’s shoulder. There’s a brief tingle, and then the wound simply closes, the dull pain that Dean had been ignoring gone. The man lifts his hand away and seems to examine his handiwork. Then, with the barest of smiles, he dissolves back into the woods.


	2. Part 2

_ **...arrived at my door in the moonlight, all starbright...** _

It is a still night. The fire burns low in the hearth, and a single candle sheds light on the rough-hewn table. Pale moonlight filters in around the edges of the shutters, closed against the cold. Dean is just settling in to his evening meal, the thick stew steaming in his battered tin bowl, when there is a pounding on his door.

Instantly wary, he grabs his knife from where it hangs from the post of his bedstead, before crossing to the door. He gets no visitors. Those friends he does have in the village do not come out to him. There is no reason for anyone to come to his cabin.

Keeping his body behind the door, and his knife drawn, he swings the door wide and nearly drops the knife in surprise. There, on his doorstep, is the blue-eyed man from the forest.

The man quirks that tiny smile at him again, more in his eyes than his mouth, and asks, in a voice like rocks tumbling in a stream, “May I come in?”

The man exudes an air of calm, and it settles over Dean as well. A lifetime of instincts would tell him to do otherwise, but without hesitation, Dean swings the door wider. “Of course. It’s cold out.” He knows somehow, deep in his gut, that this man will not harm him.

He closes the door behind the stranger, and holds out a hand to take his coat, only to realize the man is not wearing one. Nor is he wearing a scarf or gloves, or any protection from the cold beyond a thin shirt and sturdy pair of trousers. He opens his mouth and closes it again.

The man should be an icicle.

He ought to ask questions, run tests, arm himself, but for once in his life, Dean is wholly inclined to trust.

“I’m Dean,” he offers instead, and the stranger takes his hand with that same strange, solemn look.

“Hello, Dean.” His voice winds itself into Dean’s bones, warming him more than the low fire could. “I am Castiel.”

“Well,” Dean says, some deep knowledge, some powerful bond, lighting up in his chest, “welcome home, Cas.”

The morning dawns bright, bringing with it a clarity that burns off some of the dreamy haze of the night before.

Though Dean had felt an instant—almost profound—connection to Castiel, caution has served him well all his life, and he ought not to abandon it now. It’s all very well, the deep, instinctual trust that Castiel inspires in him, the fact that Castiel stayed all night without harming him, even the help Castiel provided him with his wound that day in the woods—and that’s another concern, that strange magic that Dean had not recognized—but Ruby had been helpful and positioned herself as an ally, and Sam had trusted her, and look how that had ended up. And so, despite every instinct in his body telling him that Castiel is _good—_that good things do happen—Dean will not trust his own judgement here.

But if his own judgement cannot be relied upon, there is someone who can provide him with answers. Castiel is agreeable when Dean suggests going into the village, even after Dean straight out tells him that he wants someone to examine his magic and determine if he can be trusted.

“Of course, Dean. I would not like you to feel unsafe with me.”

His response is reassuring. Surely, if Castiel wished him harm, he would not be so willing to lay his secrets bare before even the most paltry of village witches—and Rowena is particularly adept at her craft.

They pass the walk to the village pleasantly, boots crunching in the crisp, white snow, the sun shining down on them and catching on the wings of birds as they circle and sing. It has been so long since Dean has made the journey to the village without being weighed down by the heavy sledge, and he revels in the feeling of being unburdened, his shoulders straightening, as if the weight has been lifted off his soul as well as his body. Despite the purpose of their journey, he can’t help but feel that Castiel is somehow responsible.

He turns to smile at the mysterious man just in time to watch a tiny jewel-like songbird settle on his shoulder and warble something in his ear. Castiel strokes a strong but gentle finger over it’s back and murmurs something in a language Dean does not know. In a ruffle of feathers, the bird takes off again, trilling a note of farewell as it goes.

Dean is still staring, wide-eyed, when Castiel turns his gaze from the little bird’s flight to rest softly on Dean. “You’re—” Dean blurts. “That was—I’ve never seen anyone do that.”

Castiel’s lips quirk minutely. “I have a way with animals, I suppose, and a particular... kinship with birds. I like them.”

Dean clears his throat. “They clearly like you, too.” Castiel looks pleased with that, and Dean is struggling to find more to say, when they emerge into the wide clearing that houses the village. “That’s Rowena’s cottage over there.” He indicates a tidy home with a sloping roof and bundles of herbs tied over the door. In the summer, he knows there is also a neat little garden where she grows many of her own ingredients.

He leads them down the path to the door and raps sharply. Within moments, the door is being yanked open by a red-haired little boy, bundled up in coats and scarves, who goes barrelling out the door, straight past them, to hurl himself bodily into a snowbank.

“Fergus,” Rowena, calls bustling into the entry hall, with a knobbly knitted object in her hands. “You forgot your hat.” She looks at the object in her hands, grimaces, then shrugs as she hands it over to her son, who pulls it down to cover his ears. “Now stay within sight of my scrying spell, and don’t go into the trees.” The boy runs off, and she turns to her visitors with hands on her hips. “Now this is a surprise visit, Dean Winchester,” she says, eyes shrewd as always. “Though I do appreciate you bring along your handsome friend. Hello tweetypie.”

“Um, hello,” says Castiel, sounding at once solemn and uncertain. A burst of something goes off in Dean’s chest, like the fireworks he had seen once when he and Sam had happened to be in the capital on the anniversary of the king’s coronation. They’d both been entranced by the bright blooms of colour and light. It is one of the few perfect memories of his youth.

Rowena laughs her tinkling laugh, and lays a delicate hand on Dean’s arm. “I like him. Come into the kitchen. I can scry for Fergus, and you can tell me what you need.”

Dean had once been sent to kill Rowena MacLeod. They don’t discuss it now, but they both know.

Sam had been gone then, too: the first time he'd left, off at school, far away from his humble origins. With his youngest gone, John Winchester had seemingly lost interest in his eldest as well, except to send him on those hunts he didn’t care to do.

The hunt that led Dean to meet Rowena was one of these. A young lordling to the north had been heard complaining far and wide that he’d been cursed by a witch, and John had deemed Dean capable of discovering the witch and killing her.

It had taken Dean short work to find the witch—Rowena, in those days, had possessed the raw power, but none of the control or the subtlety she had honed in the years since. But when he found her, it took but one look to understand that the situation was not all that it had appeared.

The witch in question was a pale, skinny thing, and young, all big eyes and red hair, raggedy and scared and defiant. There was an equally raggedy baby in her arms. The circumstances instantly became clear to Dean.

“The babe is his?” he asked, “Lord Gilroy?”

The young witch, barely seventeen if she’d been a day, had given him a look of contempt with the weight of centuries behind it. “Aye. Of course it is. Not that he will claim it,” she added in a mutter.

Dean’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Did he force you?”

This time the contempt was directed at herself. “He did not. He didn’t have to. He made me promises, told me he loved me. And I believed him. Me, the tanner’s daughter!” She laughed bitterly. “And then he left me there, labouring and bleeding and thinking I might die, not to mention my reputation in tatters, and he went back to his perfumed wife and his big house and his feasts, with not even a coin to feed his son.” In a near whisper to the blanket-wrapped infant, she added, “Some days, I can’t even look in his wee little face.”

“So you cursed him,” Dean surmised.

“I did.” She clutched the baby tighter. “He should hurt, at least a fraction as much as he hurt me.” Her voice was fierce.

“Can’t say I blame you.” Dean would never hear the end of it if John knew he was commiserating with a witch, but he didn’t have much sympathy for rich men who treated the lower orders like disposable playthings.

Her mouth upturned wryly. “But you still have to kill me, aye?”

It was what John would have done, but Dean came to a decision. “I’m not going to kill you. As far as I’m concerned, Lord Gilroy has got what was coming to him. I want to help you.”

She raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “And just how do you propose to do that?”

“I know of a village where the herbalist has recently moved away. A village of good people. They’ll welcome you, no questions asked.”

She pursed her lips. “You’re asking me to become a good witch.”

Dean spread his hands. “I’m offering you a second chance. For you and your baby.”

She’d regarded him for a long minute, wary and assessing behind the curtain of her red hair. “You’ll take us there?” she asked at last. “After all, I have no money for the stage.”

“I’ll take you,” Dean agreed.

“Then I’ll go. Be a good witch.” For an instant, her gaze turns down to her baby, unmistakable tenderness warring with old pain and fear. “Start a new life, for me and Fergus both.”

“Good choice.” Dean held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Dean Winchester.”

She shifted the babe to the crook of her arm in order to shake his hand. “Rowena MacLeod.”

As promised, Dean had brought mother and child to the village of Lawrence. He had friends there, people connected to the hunting life, but less rigid in their beliefs than his father. Old Rufus Turner was a retired hunter turned woodsman. Ellen Harvelle had sheltered his family in her inn many times, and her daughter Joanna had been a childhood playmate whenever they had passed through. Even the old herbalist, Missouri Moseley, who had moved away to be closer to her granddaughter, was a friend. Rowena and Fergus would be surrounded by good people, kind people, as they made their new life.

In the years since, Rowena has become an integral part of the life of the village and has honed her powers well beyond that first curse she had placed on the unfaithful lord. She is among the strongest witches Dean has known, and if anyone can discover the source of Cas's magic, Dean trusts her to do so.

They settle in around Rowena's table, and she takes a moment to set up her scrying bowl so she can keep an eye on Fergus as he plays. Done with that, she turns to Castiel.

“Let me take a closer look.” Rowena takes both of Cas’s hands in hers, peering deep into his eyes, or maybe his soul. Her eyes glow purple with the light of her magic, and an answering bluish-white glow almost seems to radiate from Castiel’s skin. Dean shakes his head to dispel the image, but it is like it is burned to his eyelids.

At last, Rowena releases Castiel’s hands.

“Well?” Dean asks.

“Well, I don’t know what he is,” she says briskly, “but there’s no evil in him. I can tell you that much. His magic is—it’s like touching pure _good. _We need fear no harm from him, I dare say.”

“I would never harm you, Dean,” Castiel intones in those solemn tones of his. Dean believes him entirely.

Castiel fits himself easily into Dean’s daily routine, coming along with Dean each day to gather firewood, and joining him each night for a bowl of the stew that seems better somehow, heartier, than ever before. Dean offers to build him a bed, but Castiel declines, so Dean fashions him a bedroll from furs, lets him have the prime place beside the hearth. If the bedroll never seems slept in, neither Dean nor his new companion see fit to comment.

Cas is good company, too, a sympathetic listener, but not one to pry or force Dean to talk. Their silences are comfortable, natural.

Dean enjoys Cas’s bluntness, too, and his dry sense of humour. More than once he startles a laugh out of Dean, and Dean realises just how long it's been since he had something to laugh about. More and more often, he finds himself whistling a tune while he works, or smiling helplessly, a warm feeling blooming in his chest. Bit by bit, Castiel becomes an integral part of every moment of his life.

Though Castiel seems content with Dean’s company alone, most of the time, he willingly accompanies Dean on his weekly excursions to the village, where he becomes something of a favourite amongst Dean’s friends. Ellen and Joanna in particular warmed to him after he impressed them by drinking Ellen herself under the table. He seems fond of them as well, which is why Dean is surprised when on a particular occasion during a late-winter thaw, he declines to accompany him.

More surprising, perhaps, is that this refusal comes mere days after another demon encounter, this one which had left a heavily bleeding gash across Dean's cheek from a lucky swipe of the demon's blade before Dean had driven his knife home. The creature had flared out, and Dean had turned to Cas with something of a feral grin, only to falter at the devastated look on Castiel's face.

"Cas?" he asked, uncertain.

Castiel closed the space between them in two quick strides, lifting a hand to touch the stinging stripe, uncaring of the tacky blood covering his fingers. "You're hurt," he murmured, lips pressing into a thin line.

"It's no big deal," Dean protested, even as a tingling swoop of magic rushed from Castiel's fingers into Dean's skin. Within seconds, the wound closed, knitting together like it had never been there. "See? Problem solved."

Nonetheless, Castiel had continued frowning, his fingers pressed to Dean's cheek for a long moment. Dean's attention drifted from his shadowed eyes to his plush lips and back again, before Castiel remembered himself, and withdrew with a tiny shake of his head.

"You should never be harmed by the spawn of Hell."

After that, Dean would have expected Castiel to stick closer to his side, not to stay behind when Dean ventures into the village, but it seems that is precisely what he intends to do.

“Perhaps another time,” he tells Dean, something faraway in his voice. “But maybe,” he tilts his head towards the one interior door, “I could use your workroom while you’re away.”

“Of course,” Dean assures him, warmth in his voice. As nonplussed as he is about Castiel's change of plans, he can deny him nothing. “Everything that’s mine is yours, too.”

“Oh,” Castiel says in a voice full of wonder. Then, he kisses Dean. It’s nothing but a short slide of mouth against mouth, but Dean feels the breath punched out of him.

“_Oh_,” he says.

Cas eyes him gravely. “Travel safely.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yes. I’ll do that.”

Even though Dean misses Castiel’s company, that kiss sustains him, keeping him afloat nearly to the clouds as he makes his rounds.

“You’re awfully chipper this morning,” Rufus Turner comments, and there is nothing for Dean to do but shrug, helpless to stop the grin that splits his face. Despite his good mood, he rushes through visiting with his friends, eager to get back to Cas.

When he returns, hauling the empty sledge, Cas greets him in the doorway.

“I have something for you,” he says without preamble, uncaring that Dean is wet and muddy from the walk. He presses something flat and round and warm into Dean’s hand.

Dean opens his hand to examine the object. It’s a small disc of some sort of textile, with little beads and pieces of wood sewn in. It’s threaded onto a leather thong, and whatever the strange, strong fibre is, it’s a brilliant, breathtaking blue. The whole thing seems to pulse with life.

“It’s an amulet,” Cas explains. “For protection. When you wear this, demons should be unable to harm you.” Dean can feel the truth of it woven into the thread

“You made this?” he asks, though there is really no question. “For me?”

Cas regards him solemnly. “I should not like to see you come to any harm, Dean Winchester.”

This time it’s Dean who leans in and kisses him.

Their lips meet, Castiel’s plush beneath his own, parting on a soft gasp. Dean sucks the lower lip into his mouth, and runs the tip of his tongue over the trapped flesh. Their stubble scrapes gently together, sending shivers down Dean’s spine. His hands lift of their own accord, tangling into that silken shock of dark hair that he has been longing to touch, even as Cas’s large, sturdy hands wrap around him, hauling him closer, so that Cas can deepen the kiss.

An eternity of kissing later, they fall into bed, the rough blankets and thin mattress feeling as soft as feathers as they sink into them. Dean palms the rough stubble of Castiel’s jaw, awe sufusing his bones as Castiel turns his face into the touch, blue eyes wide and luminous and fixed on Dean’s face with a kind of reverence. Dean’s other hand finds Castiel’s waist where he hovers over him, and pulls him down until they are pressed together all along the length of their bodies. Their mouths meet on a sigh.

Dean means to turn them over, to spend as much time as the world will allow pressing worship into Castiel’s skin with his hands and his mouth. Castiel has other plans, however, his kisses intoxicating, the careful touch of his fingers melting Dean back into the bedding, overwhelmed by the careful curiosity with which Castiel is exploring him.

“Let me,” Dean begs, when Cas has bared Dean’s torso to the cool night air and sits up to shed his own garments. “Let me do this for you.” He follows Cas upwards, getting his knees under him as they kneel nearly chest to chest. The slight chill in the air prickles his bare skin. Pressing their foreheads together, Dean watches his hands loosen the ties of Castiel’s shirt, revealing a growing expanse of golden skin in the firelight. He runs the pads of his fingers over the exposed vee and Cas tips his head back, his breath escaping in a long, low rush.

Dean lifts the shirt over Castiel’s head, further mussing his dark hair. He is beautiful like this, rocked by new sensations, body illuminated by the firelight, eyes gleaming with emotions Dean doesn’t dare put a name to. He presses his mouth to one strong shoulder, follows the curve of it across, down over Castiel’s collarbone, kisses into Cas’s sternum all of his awe and gratitude that he gets to have Cas like this, soft and touchable and in his bed.

But he can’t bring himself to be parted from Cas’s lips for long. He trails adoration up the strong line of his neck and over the sharply defined jaw, until his finds Cas’s mouth again, plush and welcoming, and they fall into each other.

Twined side by side in bed, they soon find themselves bared completely, together in their vulnerability. The warmth where their skin presses together is a shocking contrast to the cold of the early spring night, but the chill is soon forgotten as they move together, hands roaming on skin and legs entwined, as their mouths catch and slide, a litany of gasps and sighs and praise filling the scant air between them.

Castiel reacts as though everything is new, every touch, every sensation. Dean wants to show him all the joys of human touch, human pleasure, doing everything in his power to draw the soft exclamations that fall like dewdrops from Castiel’s lips.

Dean himself has not been touched like this in a very long time—far too long, his younger self might have complained—but even if he had, he knows that nothing would come close to this. It is only a simple rhythm, only skin pressed to skin in a rough cabin, in a rough bed, but he feels like he is flying, soaring on the fierce joy that Castiel’s touch makes sing through his veins. He’s in love, he’s in love, he’s in—

Castiel gasps, his mouth a surprised O, his eyes flying open, wide and so _so _blue. His fingers clutch hard at Dean’s biceps, and Dean holds him tight as he shakes through his peak, following him over the edge seconds later with a wounded sound that he buries in the delicate skin of Cas’s throat.

“Cas,” he says through his heaving breaths. “Cas. _Cas. _Castiel.” He presses a kiss to the skin beneath his lips, both of them shuddering against each other as they slowly come back to themselves. Dazed and out of breath, they exchange sweet kisses, hampered by the smiles that spread across their faces.

Castiel caresses Dean’s cheek, trailing his fingertips over the freckled skin. “You are perfect,” he says, and Dean kisses his fingertips. “You are everything I have dreamed of. I would do anything for you.”

Dean kisses the pad of each finger again in turn. “I know, Cas,” he declares fervently. “I know. I would do the same.”

Castiel smiles a lays a finger across Dean’s lips, silencing him. “I would never ask you to.”

Dean wants to shake his head, wants to disagree, but Castiel is smiling at him so sweetly that he allows himself to fall silent. Surely Castiel knows that he would give him the world.

As Dean and Castiel fall deeper and deeper into each other, Dean thinks he could be almost perfectly happy to live out his days like this, were it not for the dark cloud that ever looms on his horizon, casting its long shadows across his world: Sam.

Sam, his little brother.

Sam, who sits on the throne of Hell.

Sam, who he failed.

Dean had been responsible for Sam nearly all his life, from the moment his father had shoved his infant brother into his arms, while the flames that had stolen his mother licked their way up the walls, inexorably consuming the only home Dean had ever known.

With no home and no wife, John Winchester had thrown himself into hunting, bringing his young boys with him from posting inn to hovel and everywhere in between. Left alone in those unfamiliar rooms, Dean had done all he could to ensure that Sam grew up healthy and strong and loved. Even when John had deemed Dean old enough to bring along on hunts, and even after Sam was brought into the family business too, Dean had always considered looking out for his brother his very first priority.

When Sam was eighteen, he had departed for the king’s university, determined to become a scholar, despite the disadvantages of his birth and background. John Winchester had been livid, but his younger son had always been possessed of a stubborn streak, and so Sam had departed anyway. Dean, despite missing the brother whom he had raised practically as his own, stayed with his father, only to be sent on more and more solo hunts.

At university, Sam had fallen in love with a young woman, and fellow student, Jessica. Dean had met her only once on a visit to his brother, but she seemed a sweet-natured and intelligent girl.

In Sam’s final year of studies, she had sickened and died. Heartbroken, Sam had abandoned his studies and his dreams and had joined Dean, who was hunting entirely on his own by then, their father having been brought down by a powerful denizen of hell.

For two years, the brothers had hunted together, carrying on their family’s legacy, and saving as many people as they could. Then Ruby had come on the scene.

They first encountered her in Shankill, hunting down the creatures who had been butchering truculent children. She had swept into the dank underground lair where they were battling the creatures, and had taken out seven without breaking a sweat. Dean had been suspicious, but Sam had been—reluctantly, he claimed—impressed.

After that, she had shown up time and again to help them on hunts, always full of helpful information and praise for Sam’s skill. Unsurprisingly, Sam had warmed up to her, despite Dean’s lingering suspicions.

“You’re so quick to judge,” Sam had accused Dean once. “You just don’t like that someone other than you is getting close to me.”

“You’re afraid that I’m stronger than you,” he had spat another time. “That’s why you’re always trying to control me.”

“She says I could do real good in this world, if only you weren’t too weak to let me!”

Dean had grit his teeth against the accusations, only keeping a sharper eye on his brother and hoping the infatuation would soon run its course.

Ruby had almost lost ground with Sam when a fight against a coven of witches led to the revelation that she was a demon. But she had fought in their corner against the demon to whom the borrower witches had sold their souls, and afterward, she had sworn up and down that she was different from other demons, that she had been human once, and that she wanted to do all in her power to help them bring down the forces of hell.

When the brothers had remained skeptical, tears had formed in her eyes, and she had begged for another chance to help them preserve the world from her own kind. Sam had been sold. Dean had not been, but he had as much desire as Sam to see the spawn of hell removed from the world, and Ruby _had _proven herself useful. And so, reluctantly, he had agreed to continue working with her until such time as she proved herself untrustworthy.

It had been a mistake. By the time Dean had realized Ruby’s true plan, she had progressed from pouring her metaphorical poison into Sam’s ear in the form of honeyed words of praise, and had progressed to feeding him the poison in a very literal sense.

“It makes me stronger!” Sam had argued after Dean had caught him, red smeared around his mouth from where he had been drinking blood—demon blood—directly from Ruby’s throat. “Strong enough to kill demons, strong enough to take out even the worst of them.”

Instead, it had made him the worst of them.

“Just like the prophecy,” Ruby had gloated, her eyes alight with triumph and a sick sort of worship, when Sam had finally stood over a horrified Dean, eyes as black as night, and a strange, cruel twist to his mouth. “Sam Winchester, the Boy King of Hell, and it’s all because of me! They all doubted me, thought I was a traitor, but look at me now. I’m the best of you all!”

Dean snarled and lunged at her, brandishing the demon-killing knife that she herself had gifted the brothers as a token of goodwill. Just another manipulation.

A lazy wave of Sam’s hand halted him in his tracks, leaving him straining against invisible bonds.

Sam’s face was blank, and his black eyes were fathomless depths; there was no sign of the boy Dean gave his life to raise. This creature was something else altogether. Something sinister and revolting. Dean shuddered, and the corner of Sam’s mouth twisted cruelly upwards.

“I’m not going to let you kill Ruby, Dean,” he said, almost conversationally. Ruby bared her teeth at Dean. “She’s mine to kill.”

“My lord—?”

Sam turned on Ruby before the fanatical light even had a chance to leave her eyes, raising a hand in the air and slowly clenching it as she howled in pain. It was the same power she had taught him, the ability to rip demons from the bodies they wore and crush the black smoke of their souls into oblivion, but magnified a hundredfold by his ascension to his prophesied throne. He was clearly not aiming for efficiency this time, drawing out the torture as Ruby writhed and cried out, fighting to stay in her meatsuit.

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “My lord,” she begged. “Why? You were going to make me your queen!”

“Why?” Sam asked, deceptively calm. He twisted his hand and she convulsed, a horrifying moan making its way up her throat. Frozen where he stood, Dean could do nothing but watch in unfolding horror. “You tricked me, Ruby. You manipulated me.”

“To make the prophecy come to pass!” she sobbed.

“Ah, but how could I ever trust you? No, Ruby, I couldn’t possibly let you live.”

He gave a vicious yank, and she _screamed. _“My lord! Sam,” she was hysterical now. “Please, Sam. I did it for you. I did it all for you. Don’t you see? I love—”

Sam ripped her soul from her body, crushing the thick black smoke until there was nothing left. The corpse fell to the floor with a dull thud. He turned back to his brother with a cold smirk. “That was… invigorating.” Sam eyed Dean’s paralyzed state. “Don’t worry, Dean. I’m not going to kill you today. You can’t harm me—you were never as strong as me—and it will be far more fun, knowing that you’re out there, and that this is what you drove me to. Because every time I destroy something precious, something good, you and I will both know: it’s your fault.”

With a snap of Sam’s fingers, the invisible bonds holding Dean in place disappeared, and he stumbled forward, turning the movement into a lunge towards his brother. But in the blink of an eye, Sam was gone, and Dean was alone in the Broken Levee’s shabbiest room, chilled to the bone with the creeping wrongness of what his brother has become.

It is all his fault.

Dean wakes up panting. A steady hand cards through his hair, soothing. Castiel. As far as Dean knows, he doesn’t sleep, but he always seems content to rest beside Dean and watch over him while he sleeps.

Dean curls a fist into the open front of Castiel’s shirt, and the hand stroking his hair pauses in its ministrations, before continuing.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks, his voice low in deference to the early hour of the morning. It is not yet dawn, only the faintest tinge of lighter grey beginning to filter in through the cracks of the shutters.

With a sigh, Dean pulls away and sits up. “I’m fine. It was just a nightmare. You know I used to be a hunter. It comes with the territory.”

“Dean,” Castiel says in a softly chastising tone. “You were not dreaming about a hunt. You said your brother’s name.

Dean deflates, shoulders slumping. “I can’t talk about my brother, Cas.”

Castiel places a large hand on his shoulder, a solid brand of warmth. “I know, dear heart.”

“You know what happened?”

Castiel hesitates only a moment, before admitting, “Yes.”

Dean shakes his head. “You know, if you were anyone else, it would be creepy that you know so much. But from you, it’s… comforting.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watches Cas’s eyes crinkle and the corner of his mouth lift. “That’s good. I would not want to make you uncomfortable.”

Dean turns to him, laces their fingers together. “Never,” he promises.

It’s a sunny day in late spring, the air redolent with the heady scent of lilacs and alight with the songs of birds. Dean and Castiel are taking advantage of the sunshine and lingering in the village, Cas communing with the local cats, and Dean conversing—alright, gossiping—with Rowena, while she keeps an eye on her young son, Fergus, as he runs about, naked as the day he was born.

“Just look at him,” she says to Dean. “Wee little banger flapping in the breeze.” She imitates the motion with her finger, and Dean presses his lips together to keep from laughing.

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re going to hold onto this to embarrass him when he’s older?”

Rowena smirks wickedly. “The perks of motherhood. No, Fergus,” she calls, “we do not eat dirt.”

Suddenly, the air is rent with screams from the direction of the village square. The three adults are immediately on alert, Cas rising smoothly to his feet, and Dean fingering his blade.

“Fergus,” Rowena calls, her tone sharp with worry. “Come to Mummy now.”

The little redheaded boy obeys, running over on his short little legs, and she sweeps him behind her skirts as a pack of demons round the bend. Most of them are wearing strangers, probably long-dead, but to Dean’s dismay, one of them is wearing Joanna.

“Well, well, well,” the demon says, twisting Joanna’s pretty face into a vicious leer, as she focuses in on Fergus. “What a delectable little morsel you are. Why, I could gobble you right up.”

Fergus whimpers and clings tighter to his mother’s skirts. With a snarl, Rowena raises her hand, purple bolts of power shooting towards the demon and catching her in the upper arm.

“Careful,” Dean says, bracing his feet in preparation to be rushed by the demons. “That’s Joanna in there.”

“Then you’d better get that hellspawn out of her, before I rip it limb from limb.”

“Don’t you even think about harming my daughter,” Ellen snarls from where she and Rufus have led a pack of villagers, armed to the teeth, to cut off the demons’ escape route.

“Ooh,” the demon bares Joanna’s teeth in a feral grin. “Hello there, mommy dearest. You’re a protective one, aren’t you. Or is the word controlling? Either way, isn’t this delicious? I’d like to make the two of you fight to protect your spawn. Wouldn’t that be entertaining?”

Under his breath, Dean begins to chant an exorcism, but her attention snaps to him.

“Oh no you don’t,” she snarls. “I like this little meatsuit, and I plan to keep it. If that means snapping her neck, well, I will miss her screaming, but those are the sacrifices a demon has to make.”

Ellen lets out a shout of rage.

Before the demon can do more than twist her head to the side, Castiel is a blur of movement, tackling her to the ground. The demon snarls and snaps, but Castiel pins her down with one hand, pressing the other to her forehead as a blue light pours out of his palm. Joanna’s mouth opens and a cloud of black smoke rushes out, only to be captured in midair by more of Castiel’s light and burned away.

As if that’s a signal, the rest of the demons turn on the villagers, rushing towards them, intent on doing damage.

“The other vessels are dead,” Castiel calls to Dean, not leaving his position standing over Joanna’s prone form, but burning out any demon who comes too close.

Dean nods once, tight-lipped, and sets about him with the demon-killing knife, as more and more demons seem to materialize in front of Rowena’s cottage.

It is late when they trudge back home. After the last of the demons were defeated, Dean and Castiel pitched in with the rest of the village to repair the damage caused by the attack. Castiel had made himself invaluable—and the makeshift infirmary being set up in the public room of Harvelle’s inn redundant—by healing the injured with a touch of his hand. Dean had set himself the task of building a pyre for the bodies the demons had left behind. Thankfully, none of the villagers were among them, the only casualties the long-dead victims the demons had been wearing.

That work done, and the pyre lit, they had joined in with the others to tidy the last of the debris from the streets. When the last evidence of the attack was cleared away, everyone had gathered in the inn to drink a toast to their collective survival. Under the joviality, however, it was clear that many of the villagers were shaken, not least Joanna, who largely kept to herself in a corner, dodging her serving duties. Dean spent much of the evening watching Ellen, who in turn was watching her daughter with a deep crease in her brow.

Still, everyone was determined to keep up a bright manner, and it was dark before Dean and Castiel were finally able to beg leave to start out on the long walk home.

They are quiet as they walk. A glance at Castiel’s profile, lit by the faint light of the moon that filters through the trees, doesn’t reveal any of what he is thinking. Dean, however, is troubled.

Demons don’t usually behave like this, don’t attack in coordinated packs. For most of the years Dean was hunting, demon encounters were rare and often the work of one lone hellspawn looking for a bit of vicious entertainment. More deliberate attacks had picked up in number during the few years Dean was hunting with Sam alone, as unbeknownst to them, chess pieces were moved to bring about the Boy King prophecy.

But since Sam has ascended his throne, demon attacks have taken on a new character, far more organized, demons cooperating with each other in previously unseen ways. Dean recognizes his brother’s hand in it.

He can’t help but worry that he had brought this attack down on the village. After all, Sam has sent his minions after Dean in one or twos, a nasty calling card to remind Dean of his failure. He knows that Dean cares about the people in this village, many of them friends from their hunting days. Would that be enough to make them targets?

Dean continues to think on it as he and Cas arrive home at last, and is still dwelling as they fall into their bed. After the events of the day, there is no question of making love. Instead, Castiel lets Dean lay his head on his chest, running soothing fingers through his hair.

“I am sorry, my love,” Castiel says, though he has nothing to be sorry for.

“Is it my fault?” Dean asks Castiel’s chest, his voice small.

Long fingers sift through the strands of his hair as if they are water. “It is no one’s fault but the demons themselves. And whoever sent them,” Castiel adds as an afterthought.

Dean doesn’t raise his head, not needing to look up to picture the sad, solemn look on Castiel’s face. Instead he frowns intensely at the brown nipple that peeks through the open collar of Castiel’s shirt where it is twisted to the side. “I hate it,” he mutters. “I hate that demons can terrorize whoever they want. I hate seeing my friends threatened and possessed. I _hate _what Sam has become.”

“I know.” Cas’s voice is a comforting rumble, felt as much as heard, where Dean’s head is still pressed against his heart. “Shh, beloved, I know.”

Dean makes a helpless noise against the thin fabric of Castiel’s shirt, letting his steady presence warm the chill in his heart. “I just want to protect them,” he laments. He rubs the amulet he wears between two fingers. “This amulet,” he asks, feeling it’s power warp gently about him. “Do you—could you—? It’s not fair that I’m protected, and they are not. Could you do it? Could you make more, at least for the village?”

“For all the village?” Castiel asks, a cautious note in his voice that Dean isn’t sure he likes. “It will take some time. And I will need to remain undisturbed. This is very important, Dean.”

Dean pushes himself up on an elbow to look into his lover’s face, all wide, serious blue eyes, and faint lines of worry. “Please,” he says low. “They deserve to be protected. You know they do. More than I ever have.”

Something sad passes over Castiel’s face, but he lifts a palm to Dean’s cheek. “If you would ask it of me, of course I will do it. You may ask anything of me, Dean.” He sounds so solemn and earnest that Dean cannot help but duck his head to claim his mouth, slow and honey-sweet. His heart swells with love.

Castiel works assiduously on the amulets for the villagers, shutting himself up the little workroom for hours on end. (“You musn’t come in while I am working,” he cautions Dean, “and you mustn’t peek in there until my work is done.”) He locks himself in before Dean departs with his axe, and is still working when Dean returns in the evenings, weighed down with freshly chopped wood. He emerges only when Dean raps gently on the door, announcing mealtimes.

Cas has seemingly discovered a new interest in eating, and Dean is content to feed him up. He pulls out all the stops to make his meals as filling and delicious as he can, thrilling a little inside every time Cas leaves behind an empty plate, looking stronger and more alert than when he had sat down.

Dean’s fairly certain it’s not his imagination. Cas has been looking wan and worn lately, ragged around the edges. He’s been sleeping, too, every night, and while Dean appreciates being able to hold him and wake up beside him, he’s concerned. He wishes he could write it off as a summer cold, if he thought that Cas—whatever the source of his powers—was subject to such indignities.

Perhaps Cas is still distressed about the attack on the village. God knows it’s been weighing on Dean. He thinks about it when he is not with Cas, thinks about the screams of his friends, thinks about Joanna, nearly lost to the demon who rode her, thinks about little Fergus and the fear in his eyes. He wonders if the demons were there because of him, if Sam had sent them after him. Or would it be worse if there was no connection, if this attack simply heralded a new era of demon activity, fueled by the rising power of their new king—a king who occupied the throne because Dean had failed him—

Only when he is with Cas is he able to shake off the thoughts. Cas’s steady presence, and his strong hands, and his quiet rumble of a voice soothe something in Dean, something that has never quieted in all his years of life, and certainly not since he lost Sam. If he could, he would bask in Cas’s presence at all times, but Cas has work to do, and so does Dean.

At long last, Cas emerges from the workroom as Dean returns one evening, his hands laden with amulets like the one Dean wears, each one made of the same mysterious textile, bright blue. When Dean reaches out to touch them with reverent fingers, he feels the reassuring pulse that speaks to him of Cas’s magic.

“There is one for everyone in the village,” Cas tells him, and Dean kisses him, because Cas’s work has made his friends safe, and because Castiel did it for _him_, and no one has ever loved Dean like that before.

He wants to keep Cas forever.

The next day, Dean breaks his routine. He doesn’t want to wait until his usual delivery day to bring the amulets to his friends. He wishes them to be protected as soon as possible, and so he sets out to the village as soon as he has broken his fast, the amulets in a cloth bundle he carries beneath his arm. Castiel wishes to come with him, but Dean insists he stays home and rests, properly now that his task is done, and Castiel, still looking drawn, acquiesces with surprisingly little fuss, allowing Dean to flutter about him, plumping up his pillows and putting him back to bed before he takes his leave.

“Thank you for your care, Dean. I will be quite alright, I promise.” He catches Dean’s hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

Dean swallows a sudden lump in his throat. “You had better be,” he tells him gruffly, bending to brush his lips against his. “You would tell me if you were not?”

Castiel says nothing, but the way his eyes crinkle as he smiles at Dean chases away his worries.

“I won’t be long,” Dean promises.

“I’ll be waiting.”

“What’s this?” is Rufus’s question when Dean presents him with one of the amulets. When Dean explains, he grunts, but accepts it and puts it on. “Powerful magic in this.”

“Castiel made it.”

Ellen Harvelle puts hers on immediately, and plucks out another one for her daughter. Joanna is tight-lipped as she takes it in, but she snatches it up quickly enough and tucks it smartly beneath her dress. Since her possession, she has been withdrawn and taciturn, but now her expression grows thoughtful. Dean knows she is considering the possibilities this amulet opens up, to hunt demons with a level of safety, to get her revenge for what had been done to her. He knows just as well that Ellen will not like it. For once, though, he doesn’t know who will win the battle of wills between mother and daughter.

“I have enough for your people as well,” he tells Ellen. He leaves her enough to distribute to her staff, from Ash in the kitchens to Ellie in the stables.

Rowena raises an eyebrow at the amulets he provides her, but wastes no time in popping one over Fergus’s head. “Do not take that off,” she tells him sternly. “I won’t have you snatched by demons.” She straightens up and regards Dean with a raised eyebrow. “I recognize Castiel’s power. I can feel his life in these.”

“What does that mean?” he asks her, but she only smiles cryptically.

“You be good to him.”

Dean is troubled by her words, but as the days and weeks go on and Castiel regains his strength, he puts it out of his mind. Certainly, nothing seems to be wrong with Cas, and surely, surely, he would tell Dean if there were anything to be concerned about. He does retain the habit of sleeping, but it seems more for the pleasure of waking up entwined with each other than for any physical need, so eventually Dean puts aside his concerns.

They resume their routine as spring wends its way to summer, Castiel once again accompanying Dean on his ventures into the woods and into the village. It is a time of near perfect happiness, Sam’s corruption the only cloud marring the horizon, and one that, while Dean will never stop grieving it, has become more and more simply the way things are.

As expected, Joanna departs to take up hunting, taking Ash from the kitchens with her. Ellen is grim-faced but resigned when she recounts this to Dean. “I’m even a little proud,” she admits in confidence, “though I will always worry for her.”

“She is better protected than most, and smart and strong. She will do well.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Ellen pulls a mug of ale and places it in front of him. “You’ve become almost wise.”

Dean gives her a quick flash of a grin. “Never that,” he assures her.

It is late summer by the time they have another demon encounter. A pair this time, wearing an unknown man and young woman. They seem to have no goal in mind, other than striking terror into the hearts of the ordinary folks they encounter, but when they find themselves thwarted from harming the villagers, thanks to Castiel’s protective amulets, they grow irate. A trail of destruction grows in their wake.

Dean manages to get the jump on one just as it sets a barn ablaze. The heat sears his skin as he grapples with the creature in the dirt. He grits his teeth against the memories of the fire that took his mother, and snarls into the demon’s face.

In a corner of Dean’s awareness, Rufus immediately begins marshalling villagers to contain the fire. Castiel’s protective magic keeps the demon from doing any true harm to Dean, but it uses a supernatural strength to hold his knife hand at bay. It grins up at him with a face covered in gore from the livestock it had slaughtered, and licks its lips.

“Your brother is going to burn down everything you love.” It’s laugh is grating and wild.

Dean wrenches his hand free, and drives his blade home, watching with satisfaction as the demon’s life flickers and burns out in front of his eyes. Letting the body slump into the dirt, he clambers to his feet and takes stock. Rufus has the fire brigade well in hand, so he leaves them to it, hurrying off in the direction he had last seen Castiel stalking after the other demon.

He finds them in a face-off, her backed against the wall of the mill, with its giant, churning water wheel. Castiel is watching her, blade in hand, but curiously, not moving, studying her with an odd tilt to his head.

“What’s the matter?” she mocks, the expression on her heart-shaped face smug, “You don’t want to hear about our Boy King’s glorious plans for this world? Come on then, why don’t you kill me already?”

“Go on, Cas,” Dean echoes. “End her.”

But Castiel is still regarding the demon with a quizzical steadiness. Abruptly, he strides towards her, one step, two. But he doesn’t raise his blade, and he doesn’t attack. Instead, he presses a palm to her forehead, and her eyes go wide before they suddenly blaze with white light, and her mouth opens on a howl.

It goes on and on, long and mournful and pained, and then just as quickly subsides into sobs and great gulps for air as Castiel removes his touch. Dean has only a moment to catch a glimpse of her wide eyes and tear streaked face, before she slumps forward and Cas stumbles back as if all his strings have been cut. Dean catches him and steadies him, hands lingering on his arms.

“What the hell happened?”

“I purified her.” Cas’s voice is ragged, his breath coming in pants, but there is a triumph to his tone. “I thought I could do it. Her true face, I saw—it had a kind of thorny beauty that told me she was not so far gone she could not be saved. And she wasn’t.”

“Pretend I don’t know what you mean, Cas.”

The demon—former demon?—in the chair lifts her head. Her face is painted with a wealth of pain, of guilt. “What he means,” she manages to croak in a voice ravaged by screaming, “is that I’m human again.”

Cas fixes Dean with a curious sort of look, his head tilted slightly in that way he does. “Do you know how demons are created, Dean?”

“I know if you trick someone into drinking a whole ton of demon blood they get to become Hell royalty,” Dean shoots back.

Cas inclines his head. “Your brother is a special case, though I suppose there are other ways to become a demon—if you died with the Mark of Cain upon your arm, for instance—but usually demons are human souls that have been tortured and twisted until there is no light left, no goodness, no spark of humanity at all. Occasionally, though, that spark is not completely extinguished, and when that happens, and the demon is alone in the body it inhabits, it is possible, with powers like mine, to cleanse the taint of hell and return the soul to humanity.”

Dean jerks his head towards the girl. “So that’s not her body.”

“It is not her original body, no. But the soul who inhabited it is long gone, and it is the body in which she will live her new life.” Gently, he asks her, “What’s your name?”

The girl gives a cracking, sobbing laugh. “It’s Meg. Some new life, remembering all the things I did. How am I supposed to start over?”

Castiel regards her with deep compassion in his blue eyes. “You will remember that you did the things you did because you were in pain, and you will find others to forgive you until you are able to forgive yourself. You will forgive yourself one day, Meg.” He says it with such conviction that Dean believes him, too.

She lifts her chin, a defiance in her, despite the tear tracks drying on her cheeks, that Dean can’t help but admire. “And how will I live?”

Dean eyes her, and she meets his gaze steadily. At last he nods. It may be his inclination to distrust her, having so recently been hellspawn, but if Castiel will vouch for her reform—her purification, he will not question it. “How do you feel about serving in a tavern?” he asks at last. Lord knows that with Joanna and Ash off hunting, Ellen could use the extra pair of hands. She’ll be suspicious, but she too will trust Castiel’s word.

“A tavern, huh?” Meg gives it some thought. “Well, a girl could do worse.”

“That demon,” Dean says. “That girl, Meg. You cured her. You purified her.” He’s been thinking about this for days, turning it over in his head, wondering how to bring it up. Watching her walk out of that devil’s trap, fully human, he had felt hope blossom in his chest in a way he hadn’t felt in years, its petals slowly unfurling in sunlight. He wets his lips. “Could you cure any demon, any strength?”

Castiel regards him steadily, and Dean wonders if her already knows what he plans to ask. “They would need to retain a tie to humanity, but if they did, yes, I could.”

Dean swallows hard against the heart that has leapt into his throat. “Could you cure Sam?”

Cas’s mouth turns up in a gentle smile, and he cups Dean’s scruffy cheek in one palm. Dean turns his face into his warmth. “Yes, my love, I believe I could. But,” he cautions, “it would not be a simple task. We would not simply be facing your brother. We would be facing much of his army as well. It will take planning, and it will take more than that simple amulet to protect you.”

“I’m not afraid of the hordes of Hell, Cas.” Not if Sam can be saved.

Castiel strokes a thumb over the rise of his cheek. “Then let me be afraid for you. Allow me time to make you a garment that will protect you against any harm Hell may try to cause you.”

“But Sam—” Dean does not want to wait, not while Sam is out there alone, corrupt and corrupting. Not when Dean finally has the chance to do right by him, to make up for his failure, to drag him out when he couldn’t before.

“Shh, dear heart,” Castiel soothes him. “Sam will still be there. He is not going anywhere. If we were to bring him back, only for you to be lost in the process—”

“It would be worth the cost.”

“No. Not to me. Never to me.” Castiel gazes at him, his eyes fathomless, sad and tender at once. Somewhere beneath Dean’s ribs, and ache grows and spreads.

“Do what you have to do,” he concedes, swallowing thickly at the gratitude that suffuses Cas’s face.

“Thank you.” Castiel’s lips meet his with the faintest touch, the mere brush of a feather.

Once again, Castiel begins barricading himself in the workroom for long hours. He no longer accompanies Dean into the forest to chop wood. For the first few weeks, Dean does at least persuade him to join him on the days he visits the village, but soon Castiel begins to beg off from that as well. Dean misses his steady company and dry humour while he works, misses the peace he finds when Castiel is beside him, misses the opportunity to pull him into his arms and kiss him whenever the mood strikes. It’s for Sam, he reminds himself over and over, he is sacrificing Castiel’s company now so that they can save Sam.

It will all be worth it.

Dean still gets Castiel at mealtimes, and tucked up beside him in bed at night. He still makes love to him in the last sticky nights of the summer and as the brisker air of autumn settles in. Dean longs to show him the brilliant blaze of colour lining the paths to the village as the trees begin to change, but since he cannot tempt him from the workshop, he brings Castiel the reddest leaf he can find. _This is the colour that my heart burns for you._ Castiel kisses him, and Dean knows he understands.

In the morning, Dean wakes to an empty bed. Castiel has already shut himself up in the workroom. “No thank you,” is all he says, when Dean knocks and asks if he wants breakfast. Dean shoulders his axe that day with a heavy frown.

He isn’t sure at first, but day by day, Castiel begins to wilt, much the same way as he did while he was making the amulets. He’s sleeping more, that much Dean knows, a restless sleep, his brow pinched in a way that Dean can’t smooth out. He wakes more tired every day.

Castiel eats now out of necessity instead of just pleasure, but despite this, he grows thinner, so gradually that it takes Dean awhile to notice. Slowly, though, the weight he had regained as he got his strength back over the summer melts off again. He suspects that Castiel does not take a break from his work to eat a midday meal while Dean is not home, and more and more as the months go on, Castiel skips breakfast or dinner, claiming a lack of appetite and only picking at the food Dean places in front of him.

“Maybe you should take a break,” Dean finds himself suggesting, before departing one morning, despite the reminder in the back of his head of _Sam, Sam, got to save Sam._ “Just for a few days, just a bit of rest. A man can’t work forever, Cas. I could stay here with you. We could spend the day together.”

But Castiel shakes his head and picks up Dean’s coat, pressing it into his hands. “You will need this. The days have grown cool.”

“Cas—” Dean starts.

Castiel kisses him swiftly, sweetly. “I will not take a break, my love. I do not require one. I have promised to save your brother. Please, allow me to make sure I do not lose you in the process.”

“Are you certain?” Dean cups Castiel’s cheek in one hand, examining his too-thin face. “Surely a little rest wouldn’t hurt. I only want to see you strong.”

“I promise,” Castiel says. “I will be strong enough to heal Sam.”

And Dean, Dean wants Sam back so badly. How can he say no?


	3. Part 2.5

_ **There’s a bend in the wind and it rakes in my heart** _

As the first frost spreads it’s icy tendrils throughout the land, painting each leaf and twig and blade of grass in delicate, deadly silver, Castiel begins to cough. It begins as dawn reaches her rosy fingers under the shutters, Castiel sitting up in bed, doubled-over in an attempt to cough silently so as not to wake Dean.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is groggy, his eyes mere slits against the early morning hour, but already he is moving, sitting up to support Cas’s weight, stroke his back until the spasms of his lungs subside. “Are you alright?” he asks at last, when the coughing fit seems to have passed.

“I’m fine, Dean.”

Dean attempts to tug Cas down, to sleep a little longer. He doesn’t like the drawn look Castiel has been sporting, or the dark circles that are taking up permanent residence beneath his eyes. But Cas is already pulling away, leaving the blankets and furs behind for the sharp, cool air of the room.

“Come back to bed, Cas,” Dean complains, holding up the blankets in invitation.

Castiel just shakes his head. “Since I’m up anyhow, I might as well get to work. But you may sleep, my dear, a little longer.”

Dean frowns and sits up in bed. “Cas, that cough didn’t sound good. Maybe you should take today to rest.”

Castiel’s smile is gentle, but his refusal is firm. “No, Dean. I promised you that I would have this ready by the winter solstice, so that we might rescue your brother. I will not fail you.”

Knowing himself defeated, Dean does not argue, but he does reach out and take Castiel’s wrist—is it narrower than it had been a month ago?—and strokes delicate fingers up the length of the tendon. “If I can’t convince you, at least let me make breakfast for you first.”

Castiel’s cough does not improve. As early frost gives way to nights of icy rain and sleet, Dean frequently wakes to a hacking cough, the bed shaking from the force of it. Gradually it worsens, until it settles into a horrible, wet rattle. It is no longer isolated to nighttime only, either. All too often, Dean can hear the terrible choking sounds emanating from the locked workroom—he knows it is locked, because in his worry, he had ignored all Castiel’s warnings and attempted to go to him, only to find the way barred.

“I don’t like it,” he tells Cas over dinner—a thin broth he knows Cas will be able to digest. “And I don’t like how weak you’ve been. Cas, please, take some time to rest and recover.”

“You needn’t worry,” Cas assures him, his eyes wide and solemn in the firelight. “I will be strong enough to cure your brother, and I will finish the garment in time.”

Dean couldn’t care less about when the garment is finished, but Cas looks so damned determined that he can’t bring himself to tell him so. “Take another bowl full,” he orders instead. “Keep your strength up.”

The wind is howling through the chinks in the cabin walls on the evening when Castiel finally emerges from the workroom, a bundle of fabric in his arms. It is already dark out, the early nightfall of winter, combined with the storm, meaning that Cas must have been straining his eyes for the last hours to complete his work by the fading red gleam of sunset, and the dim light of candles. Dean eyes him with concern, the sharp leanness that has only increased these last months, the pronounced shadows under his eyes competing with the unnatural pallor of his face, the slight shake of his hands. But there is something triumphant in the set of his mouth, a proud gleam in his eye. He shakes out the fabric and holds it up.

The garment is beautiful. It is a jerkin made of the same brilliant blue textile as Castiel’s protective amulets. Lines of intricate embroidery border the edges of the jerkin, and ring the cuffs of the sleeves. A closer look reveals that they are made of of numerous protection runes, their power woven deep into the garment. Dean can tell, just from looking at it, that it will be a perfect fit.

It is not, at first glance, fit to be armour, but the power infused in it is palpable, carrying the same deep sense of safety that Dean feels from the amulet he wears, and from Castiel himself. “No evil should be able to touch you while you wear this,” Castiel assures him. “Try it on.”

Agreeably, Dean lets Castiel play valet and help him shrug it on. As predicted, it fits like a glove. “You’ve got a future as the village tailor, when this is over,” Dean teases. Castiel merely smiles, tight lipped. Dean does have another more pressing concern. “What about you? If we’re going to be bearding the dragon in his lair, shouldn’t you have one of these, too?”

Castiel shakes his head gently. “It’s power would not work the same for me. But I promise you, Dean, I won’t fail you. The forces of hell will not stop me from saving your brother. We can begin to plan our assault as early as tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Dean asks, surprised. “But you haven’t been well, Cas. Surely, we can take the time for you to rest and recover? It’s not as if Sam is going anywhere.”

Castiel clasps a hand to Dean’s shoulder, strong and sure, despite the worrying thinness of his fingers. “Tomorrow. There is no need to worry about me. I will be strong enough.”

Despite his misgivings, Dean accepts Castiel’s assurances. Who is he to tell Cas, who is clearly so much _more _than himself, what he can and cannot handle. They spend the evening holding each other close, huddled beneath their mound of blankets, driving out the icy keening of the storm. In the morning, they set to strategizing.

“This is useless!” Dean pushes back his chair abruptly, the legs scraping against the rough wooden floor, and begins pacing the room like a caged predator. “How are we supposed to plan an attack on Sam’s palace if we have no information? We don’t know the layout, how many guards he has, nothing!”

The strategizing session has gone swiftly downhill. While Castiel and Dean had managed to make plans for travelling to the demon stronghold, and for the supplies and weapons they would need to bring with them, they had soon realized that they had little knowledge of what would be waiting for them when they got there. Castiel may have been adamant that he could save Sam, but they would have to get to him first, and now, it seemed, they would be going in blind.

Dean plucks the jerkin Castiel made from where it hangs on the post of the bed, and gives it a shake. “All this time working on this, and you didn’t once give thought to the actual attack? Sam is what’s important here, Cas, and you spent all this time worrying about me, instead of him.”

Castiel’s mouth presses into a thin line, though he does not rise from his chair. His thin fingers clench together, and Dean feels a sharp pang of worry that threatens to override his anger. “I will not have us save Sam, just for you to lose your life in the process. I will not apologize for putting your protection first.” Castiel sets his jaw and raises his chin, and Dean glares back at him mulishly, neither willing to back down.

The cough that racks Castiel’s body breaks their silent contest of wills, and Dean flies immediately to Castiel’s side, all his irritation forgotten in the helplessness that he feels as Castiel doubles over, struggling to get his body under control. Thankfully, this coughing fit does not last long, and soon Castiel is straightening up and waving Dean off, even as he pants to catch his breath.

“I’m fine,” he rasps. “It’s nothing. And I know where we will get our intelligence. Come, we can still make it to the village today.”

Meg, cured of her demonhood, has settled in well to the life of the inn. She tends the bar and teases patrons as she brings them their meals, and seems to enjoy it better than Joanna ever did. Even with Castiel’s assurances, Ellen had kept a sharp eye on her at first. “But she’s proven herself reliable,” she’d admitted to Dean, “and she’s growing on me.”

Though he doubts she would ever admit it, by the way Meg has been enquiring about Castiel’s absences over the last months—always with her lips pursed and her hands on her hips, her voice a drawl as if she could not care less—Dean knows she is fond of Castiel. Whether out of gratitude for restoring her humanity or for other reasons, Dean is not sure, but he leaves Castiel to speak with her while he makes arrangements with Ellen to borrow horses and for her to find another source of firewood while he is gone.

“It’s a foolhardy thing you’re doing.” Ellen crosses her arms over her chest. “I hope you know that.”

“I do know,” Dean says with a swallow. “But Ellen, it’s Sammy. How can I not?”

She sighs. “And you’re a good man for it. A good brother. But you’d better come back, you hear, Sam or no Sam. And be good to Castiel. Few others would go so far to save a man they’d never met. He’s doing it for you.”

Dean risks a glance over his shoulder to where Castiel is seated with Meg, going over the information she can provide them about Sam’s palace and forces. Castiel’s face is shadowed, his cheekbones too prominent, his jaw too sharp. Dean feels something rake in his heart.

Ellen follows his gaze.

“I don’t deserve him,” Dean admits quietly. “How could I? But he insists on standing by me anyway, fighting my battles anyway. How could I ever pay him back for everything he has done for me?”

He looks back at Castiel again, tracing his eyes over the lines of his face as if memorizing him. Once they have saved Sam, he will spend the rest of his life proving to Castiel over and over just how deeply he loves him, proving every bit of his devotion returned.

It has been weeks since Dean and Castiel made love. Castiel has been too occupied with his task, holed up in his workroom for long hours each day, completing the magical jerkin, all his focus on completing his task so that they can save Sam. Dean, for his part, has been almost afraid to touch Castiel. There is something fragile about him now, too thin, the skin too near translucent on his bones, his body too often wracked with coughing. He lies awake at night, Castiel’s too-bony frame tucked in the curve of his arm, deeply asleep, and wonders if any more than this would be enough to shatter him. He doesn’t dare find out.

And yet, on the night before they are to depart, Castiel comes to him, kisses him, mouth wet and desperate, hands clinging. Dean can’t help but kiss back, deep and lush, burying his hands in all that dark hair with a kind of desperation he does not quite understand. He kisses Castiel’s throat, tasting loss on his tongue, even as Castiel murmurs, “Dean. _Dean._” in low, needy tones.

Dean can count Castiel’s ribs as he strips him, lays him out on the bed, covers him in kisses. He treats each one as a prayer bead. _Please. Please, please, please, let me keep you._

Castiel responds only with a litany of his name, as if he can hold the whole of Dean’s being in his mouth. Dean closes his eyes against a hot prickle, and wishes he could do the same, hold all of Cas inside of him, safe and healthy and whole.

“I need you,” he whispers, over and over as they move together, Castiel’s too-thin fingers biting into his flesh. He weeps even as he kisses him, even as he shudders against him.

Castiel’s face is wet too, whether from Dean’s tears or his own, and his eyes are shining almost feverishly bright as he promises, “I will always give you what you need, Dean. Always.”

_I love you, _Dean wants to say. _I love you. You are the love of my life. _But the words won’t come, choked off by way his body shakes and seizes as he comes. He hopes Castiel can feel it in the clutch of his hands, the touch of his mouth, hopes his adoration bleeds into every touch as he brings Castiel off, helps him quake through his pleasure, holds him as he comes down.

_I love you. _He presses a kiss to the corner of Castiel’s lips. Castiel smiles hazily, eyes already drifting closed, sleep overtaking him before Dean can find his voice. He holds him close, fear and a shining, desperate hope beating a steady tattoo in his chest.

Though he had lain awake in the darkness for long hours after Castiel had drifted off, Dean rises with the first hints of dawn. Castiel slumbers on. Dean performs his ablutions from the battered tin pitcher they keep for such things, shivering at the chill of the water on his bare skin.

He towels himself off and pulls on his warm undergarments, before he glances at Castiel again, face unlined in sleep, as if his cares and his pain have melted away. He is loathe to wake him, but Sam awaits. _Sam can be saved._ It will be a long trek to Hell’s stronghold, so an early start is imperative. Reluctantly, he shakes Cas awake.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he whispers, in deference to the early hour.

Brilliant blue eyes blink up at him, even as Castiel’s forehead creases with pain.

“Easy there.” Dean help him sit up, frowning at the sharp line of Castiel’s spine that he can feel through his shirt. Like this, Castiel looks small, much smaller than he should, and there is a slightly glassy look in his eyes that Dean doesn’t like. Abruptly, a coughing fit rips through Castiel’s frame, and all Dean can do is hold him as his whole body rattles from the force of it.

When the coughing finally stops, and Castiel’s shoulders stop heaving with the effort of catching his breath, Dean angles him slightly so they’re looking each other in the face. “Cas,” he tries, “you’re not well right now.” He makes a decision. “We won’t go today. You can’t save Sam like this.”

Stubbornly, Castiel shakes his head. “No, Dean. I am strong enough to save your brother.”

“Cas,” Dean pleads. “You’re sick.”

“I am not so sick that I cannot give you the things you need.”

“At least let me retrieve Sam myself and bring him back here,” Dean argues. “You can purify him here as easily as there.”

“I can come with you.” With a mulish set to his mouth, Castiel pushes himself upright and swings his legs off the bed. He only totters a little. “I am coming with you. I_ will _save your brother.”

“Cas, if you’re not strong enough—”

“Allow me to be the judge of that. Please, Dean, trust me.”

Dean looks into his bright blue eyes, so serious and so soft, searching for answers. “Alright,” he says at last. “But you’d better be certain. You don’t know how much I need you.”

Castiel presses a hand to Dean’s face. “I promise. I am strong enough to save Sam.”

Dean secures his belt around the blue jerkin and holsters the last of his weapons. Beside him, Castiel does much the same. They are ready to assault Sam’s stronghold, or as ready as they’ll ever be. Dean can’t shake the sense of foreboding, but how can he not seize this chance to bring his brother back to him?

The sky is still pink when they step outside. Ellie, from Ellen’s inn’s stables is there with two horses. They will ride as far as they can, in order to cover more distance, and will leave the horses where they will be safe, at the posting inn in the last village. Dean feels an ache of loss for the beautiful black mare who had been his companion during his hunting days. He had not been able to keep her when he had left that life and retreated to these woods. He had sold her to a young lord who had the means to keep her in the luxury she deserved.

The blanket of snow on the ground envelops everything in a strange hush as they mount the horses. Dean clicks his tongue, muted in the quiet air, and they set off with a muffled jingling of tack, leaving Ellie standing behind them in front of the cabin. She will return home and tell their friends she saw them off.

The first leg of their journey passes in silence. There is little to be said that has not already been discussed, and though he would not say as much to Cas, Dean wants him to save his strength, not waste his breath on chatter. Besides, they are both muffled heavily against the cold, rendering conversation moot. From time to time, Dean steals glances at Castiel, his eyes blue stars above his thick scarf. So far, Castiel’s strength seems to be holding up, a fact that fills Dean with gratitude.

When the sun reaches its peak, they pause to eat, filling up on the bread and cheese and strips of dried meat that Dean had stuffed in their packs. Dean watches Castiel with an eagle eye to make sure he takes his fill, pleased when he does so without Dean needing to remind him.

After their meal, they mount up again. As they ride, the wind picks up, blowing sharply from the north, the direction of Sam’s castle. Dean is grateful for the scarf that covers most of his face, but tiny ice crystals still sting the delicate skin around his eyes. He watches Castiel carefully, frowning at the way he hunches forward on his horse, but knows there is nothing to do but press on, no good shelter between here and the inn where they will pass the night and board the horses. They struggle onwards.

Sunset comes too soon, the winter days short. The last streaks of orange are fading from the western horizon, and darkness rapidly falling, by the time the rambling structure of the inn looms up before them. The yard is lit by bright lanterns, and they make their way gratefully towards the gate, more than ready for a hot meal and a hot drink, and a warm bed to spend the night before they make their assault on Sam’s stronghold in the morning.

The inn is one that has stood for centuries, with heavy timber beams over plaster walls. The fences that surround the innyard and the lintels of the inn itself are heavily carved with warding sigils against demons, a necessity for an establishment so near to the stronghold that hosts the denizens of hell. Dean has no doubt that if he examined the window frames and the stable doors, he would find more of the same. They pass the horses off to an ostler, and make their way inside, stamping their feet against the cold as they unwind their layers of scarves.

The innkeeper greets them, taking in their layers and the weapons they wear.

“Hunters.” He nods sharply, not waiting for confirmation. “We like hunters here. Everything’s half off for you. What are you after in these parts?”

“The king of Hell,” Castiel replies, blunt, and the innkeeper draws in a sharp breath.

“Going for the big game, eh? You’re either fools or heroes.” He gestures to a serving girl, who ducks away, and returns moments later with steaming hot toddies. “These’ll warm you right up.”

“Thanks,” Dean says. “And I guess we’ll find out tomorrow. We have horses in your stables. If we don’t come back, they need to be returned to Ellen Harvelle’s inn in Lawrence.”

“Well, for what it’s worth,” says the innkeep, “I hope you return.”

Their journey the next morning begins on foot. The innkeeper’s wife sees them on their way with a hearty breakfast in their stomachs, and good wishes in their ears.

The trek is a grim one, and silent, though after the first quarter hour, Castiel does reach out and take Dean’s hand in his own, a comfort and a promise. It doesn’t last long, however. They soon need both hands to balance as the landscape grows more treacherous, rocky and uneven underfoot, and made all the more difficult by the knee deep snow. When Castiel slips and nearly takes Dean down with him, Dean casts about and finds a sturdy branch Castiel can use as a walking stick. Soon thereafter, he finds another for his own.

And then finally, after several long hours of walking, the infernal keep rises before them, a looming edifice of coal black stone. Towers rise high into the sky, giving the illusion of watching eyes, and a heavy wall encircles the entire structure, the only entrance through a spiked portcullis. Despite his recent weakness, Castiel bends and grasps one of the lower bars, and lifts the heavy gate open.

No sooner are they through, than an alarm is sounded, a deep, tolling bell, and two demon guards are upon them, with more bearing down. Dean is ready with a flask of holy water, blessed before their journey began, which he dashes into their attackers’ eyes. The demons scream and claw at their faces, and that gives Dean and Castiel time to reach for their weapons, positioning themselves back to back.

“Any vessels to save?” Dean asks Castiel, brandishing the demon-killing blade.

“No.” Dean feels the minute shake of Castiel’s head. “They’re all long dead.”

“Good.” With a feral grin, Dean leaps into action, ducking and weaving and slicing into demons, plunging his knife into their hearts and watching them burn out. He doesn’t need to look to know that Castiel is doing the same at his side, the burned out bodies of demons falling at their feet.

Soon, the waves of attackers slow, then stop, and Castiel and Dean take a moment to catch their breath, and assess their injuries. Thanks to the jerkin Castiel had made for him, none of the demons had come close to landing a blow on Dean. Castiel, on the other hand, bleeds sluggishly from a cut on one cheek, but he waves away Dean’s concern.

“I’m fine,” he swears. “It barely stings.” Dean is willing to believe him on that, but more concerning is the sheen of sweat that covers his forehead, and the way he nearly stumbles when he steps forward. “I’m fine,” Castiel reiterates, when Dean catches his arm. “Come on, there will be more inside.”

They enter into the great hall. It is a vast, yawning cavern of a room, lit by blazing fires in a pair of enormous fireplaces. There are more demons here to greet them, these wielding long pikes. The first one charges towards Dean with a yell, but his pike glances off Dean’s jerkin as if it were made of metal. Dean grabs the shaft of the pike, yanking it out of the demon’s hands, and breaks it over his knee. He jabs out with the demon knife, catching the creature right in the jugular. Before the fire even finishes fading from the first demon’s eyes, Dean has yanked his blade free, and is rounding on the next.

A grunt has him turning to watch Castiel take on two at once, ducking their blows, and swiftly jamming the strange blade he carries first into one heart, then immediately after into the other. The two demons fall, but then Castiel is doubling over, hands on his knees as he struggles to breathe.

With a yell, Dean finishes off the nearest demon, and leaps toward the one that is bearing down on Cas, slicing it across the chest before it can get close to him, and then trading blows until he is able to duck under its arm and plunge his blade home.

“Cas?” he asks, blade still in hand as he surveys the fallen enemies around them.

“I’m alright.” Castiel straightens up. “I just needed to catch my breath. Let’s move on.”

Dean wants to stay and let Cas rest a little longer, but there’s a steely note in Castiel’s voice that says he’s not going to listen to any such suggestions. They press on.

They fight their way through corridors to the throne room, but Sam is not to be found there. Instead, they take on his generals, and with the help of the jerkin making Dean invulnerable, manage to defeat them.

“If he’s not here,” Dean asks, once the last of the generals is dispatched, “where is he?”

“He’ll be in the tallest tower,” Castiel answers. “Meg told me.”

“Tallest tower. Isn’t he tall enough already?” Dean grouses as they climb the many stairs leading to the tower chamber of the king of Hell. “Alright, Sammy, come out, come out, wherever you are.”

The door of the tower chamber stands ajar, and they push it open to be greeted by a long-legged, lounging form.

“Well,” Sam—not Sam—says. “I guess you found me. I suppose you killed all my demons? You always did like to kill first and ask questions later, didn’t you, Dean?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Dean growls. “That was Dad.”

“And you were always his good little soldier, even after he died. How’s that been working out for you?”

“I think you’ll find you don’t know your brother nearly as well as you think you do,” Castiel says, his low rasp cutting through their sharp words.

“Well,” Sam’s attention turns to Castiel for the first time, his eyes flicking to black. “Aren’t you interesting. Tell me, what are you? Or should I pull you apart and find out what makes you tick?”

“I think you’ll find you’re in no position to be making threats,” Castiel replies.

Sam makes a moue of annoyance that sits oddly with his black eyes. “I suppose you’re here to kill me. You’d better do it. I don’t think Dean could, even if it was to save the world from me.”

“We’re not here to kill you,” Dean snarls, and Sam gets to his feet with a languid shrug.

“Odd. Then what are you here for?”

“Why don’t you come over here and find out.”

Sam smiles, something dark and gleeful and entirely un-Sam-like. “I don’t think I will. Why don’t you come to me instead. Do you still dislike heights, Dean?” So saying, he opens a door behind him, one they had failed to notice before, and steps through it.

Dean and Castiel hurry after him, and find themselves on a wide, snowy balcony, overlooking all the roofs and ramparts of the castle. Dean clutches at the wall, momentarily dizzy at the height, but Castiel presses a steadying hand on his shoulder, and Dean breathes through it.

“So, what exactly are you planning on doing to me?” Sam asks, from his place beside the railing. “If you’re not here to kill me?”

“We’re here to save you,” Dean replies.

Sam tsks and shakes his head. “No, I don’t think I want that.”

“Tough,” Dean says, and lunges at his brother, the long drop be damned. “I know this isn’t you, and you do, too.” He slams into his brother, knocking them both to the ground, where they wrestle for control. “I’m going to get every last drop of poison that bitch Ruby poured into you out again. I’m going to get my brother back!”

Despite Sam’s demon strength and his height advantage, Dean has always been the better wrestler, and he proves it now, getting Sam into a hold even he can’t break. “Castiel, now!” he shouts.

While Dean holds his preternaturally strong brother in place, Cas places a hand on Sam’s forehead. White light streams from beneath his palm, glowing under Sam’s eyelids and pouring out of his mouth, which stretches open on a silent scream. Sam’s whole body convulses in Dean’s arms, and still Castiel pours his power into him, even as his own skin takes on a greyish tinge. Dean notices with a start that blood has begun trickling from his nose.

“Cas—” he begins, but Cas shakes his head at him.

“Just a little more,” he grinds out from between clenched teeth. He sways dangerously in place, and Dean reaches out a hand to steady him.

Before he can make contact, there’s a great ripping noise. It takes a moment for Dean to comprehend the sight before him, but when he does—

In the blink of an eye, Castiel has sprouted giant, magnificent wings. Magnificent and ruined.

Bloody and battered and mangled. White bone protrudes through the shredded flesh in places, and only a handful of feathers still remain. Those that do, however, are a deep blue, like a jay’s.

In an instant, Dean understands everything. He touches wondering fingers to his coat, and reaches out to graze them over the tattered remains of Castiel’s wings. Cas flinches imperceptibly and a piteous noise escapes from his lips, low and bell-like.

“The coat,” Dean whispers. “You made the coat from your wings.”

Cas moans again, and the sound is achingly familiar. Dean recalls a strange night, and a great crash, and an ethereal, wounded creature. “You’re an angel, Cas. You’re_ the _angel.”

“Yes,” Cas gasps out, strained and weak. “Yes, I’m an angel, Dean, and I’m still strong enough to cure your brother. I am, Dean. I am. I—”

“Cas, no,” Dean says, reaching for him, as Cas’s head tips back and his eyes light up from the inside, white and blinding. Blood leaks steadily from his nose and the corner of his mouth now. Still he doesn’t remove his hand from Sam’s forehead, pouring all his power into him.

“_Cas_,” Dean begs. “_Castiel, _stop.” But Cas doesn’t stop, won’t stop—won’t stop _giving_.

Suddenly, the white light burns out. Sam sits up with a gasp, his eyes wide and clear and their own familiar hazel.

“Dean,” he says, but Dean is lunging forward to catch Cas around the shoulders before he can topple face first into the snow. His hands brush the base of those mangled wings, a sob rising in his chest.

“Castiel,” he chokes. “Cas, Cas, come on. Cas, please.” Cas breathes one shallow, shaky breath against Dean’s neck, then another, then no more.

“No,” Dean says. “Nonononono. Cas. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Hot moisture burns tracks down his cheeks as he cradles the immobile form in his arms.

He loses track of time, kneeling there in the snow. His legs go numb and his knees soak through, and still all he can do is kneel there, holding his angel. Eventually, Sam touches his shoulder, the lightest of touches, and Dean raises glassy, red-rimmed eyes to him.

Sam says nothing. There’s nothing to say.


	4. Part 3

_ **And under the boughs unbowed, all clothed in a snowy shroud** _

_ **And I will hang my head, hang my head low** _

Dean and Sam head home, back to Dean’s cabin.

What else is there to do?

Cas is gone. Cas is gone, and all because Dean kept asking of him, too blind to see how it was hurting him. Save me, save the village, save my brother. And Cas, all too willing to give, bleeding himself out, for what?

For Dean.

Dean’s breath catches painfully in his chest. His blood roars in his ears. All he can see is Cas, wings broken and shredded, blood dripping from his mouth.

He stumbles, and Sam catches him. They renew their silent, thankless trek towards home.

“Dean, you saved me,” Sam tries, several hours after they have retrieved the horses and resumed their journey. Dean had said nothing to the innkeeper, keeping his head ducked, and praying that he would not remark on Castiel’s absence. Thankfully, the older man had rewarded his silence with a commiserating one of his own, waving off Dean’s payment, and handing off a saddle bag full of provisions.

Sam continues, “You came back for me, after everything, and you—”

Dean says nothing. His shoulders hunch up higher around his ears.

Sam falls silent.

At long last, they drag their weary bodies through the cabin door.

The cabin is too empty without Cas. Dean feels like he’s suffocating, but he dutifully goes about preparing a meal to replenish their hungry bodies.

Sam examines the main room with curiosity, and Dean burns with shame at the urge to slap his brother’s hands away from anything Cas had touched. He does lock the workroom door when Sam approaches it. He faces his brother, still blocking the door with his body, but he has no words, no explanation to offer. Cas sacrificed himself by bits and pieces in that room, and the idea of Sam entering feels like sacrilege.

He swallows the lump that’s risen in his throat, and gestures around the room. “It’s hardly a palace like you’re used to, but we’ve stayed in worse.”

Sam takes the rebuke with a flinch. “It looks very comfortable, Dean. Thank you.”

Dean acknowledges him with a grunt and turns back to his cooking. He gives the stew a stir and pops a lid on to let it simmer.

“Let's get a bed set up for you.” Without waiting for a response, he begins pulling blankets out of the heavy wooden chest at the foot of the bed. “I don’t have any straw for a mattress. We’ll have to go into town to get one.”

“Uh, sure.” Sam clears his throat. Thankfully, he doesn’t comment on the fact that there is only one bed. Dean doesn’t know if he could take it, if he could explain to his brother what Cas was to him.

What Cas _was_ to him—He squeezes his eyes shut and his hands into fists, willing his breath to steady itself.

Cas—

He had wanted his brother back, but not at this price. All he’d wanted was his family together, Sam and Cas both. He’d never dreamed he would have to sacrifice one for the other. He wonders if he would have done it if he had known and feels sick at the thought. How do you measure the people you love against each other?

How does he live with what he’s lost?

For nearly a month, Dean and Sam coexist in near silence. Each day, Dean disappears for hours at a time into the forest, chopping wood in the same grim solitude as before Cas had come into his life. The first week, he hauls his load into the village, delivering his bundles of wood without a word to anyone, shrugging off condolences and comfort. Only Rowena takes one look at his face and accepts her delivery with only a tight nod that acknowledges his desire to be left alone. Even the kindness of the Harvelles is rebuffed. After that, Sam takes over the deliveries

In the evenings, Sam and Dean exchange the same bare minimum number of words necessary to navigate around each other. Sam makes aborted attempts at small talk, but some topics are never touched on—the past, the rescue of Sam. And most of all, Castiel.

Sam breaks a month in, and corners Dean over their nightly stew—thin and made solely of stored roots, as Dean has been neglecting his traps.

“Dean, you haven’t let me thank you for rescuing me, and I need to.”

Dean grunts down into his bowl. “Ain’t nothing to thank me for.”

Sam shakes his head, insistent. “But there is. You came after me, you had faith you could save me; you don’t know how much that means.”

“Wasn’t me who saved you.”

“I know,” Sam says. “I know Castiel helped, too. And I’m sorry you lost him, I am—”

“Are you?” Dean challenges.

“Of course I am,” Sam yelps.

Dean just crosses his arms and stares at his brother in stoney silence.

Sam cannot take the silence for long. “Look, Dean, I am grateful to Castiel. And I know this must be hard on you—”

“Just shut up,” Dean hisses, unable to bear hearing whatever Sam is about to say. “You have no idea what I’ve lost. You didn’t know him. But I did. I did, and he gave up everything to save you, _for me. _And I shouldn’t have asked that of him, but you know what?” The words drip like vicious poison from his tongue, a flow he does not know how to dam. “I wouldn’t have had to ask him to, if you hadn’t followed that bitch Ruby down the garden path to sitting pretty on your throne of hell.”

“That’s not fair,” Sam protests hotly. “You know how she manipulated me. You know I was tricked.”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, you were tricked. You know why? Because you were all too willing to believe in everyone’s good intentions but mine. Do you want to talk about that? How I warned you she was up to no good, and you accused me of controlling you like Dad always did? How you told me I was too weak to take on the evil of the world? Oh, but you were strong enough, because _she _told you so, and why would she lie to you? _I was just too untrusting. _Let’s talk about that.”

Sam recoils as if he’s been slapped. “If you resent me so much, why did you save me?”

“Because you’re my brother!” Dean snaps. “Because I practically raised you. Because you’re better than that, and I’ve always known it. But you’ve always resented me, too, so don’t even begin to pretend you have the moral high ground here. And Sam, what I felt, that’s not resentment. That’s hurt.” He slumps into his chair, the fight draining out of him. Since he lost Cas, he feels tired all the time, worn and threadbare. He can’t even summon the energy to continue this argument.

Sam shakes his shaggy head and swallows. “Look, Dean, I’m—I’m sorry. And I am grateful that you came for me when I didn’t deserve it.”

Dean holds up a hand. “Don’t, Sam.”

But Sam persists. “I know you lost something, because of me, and I know it was something I can’t even begin to understand. So, just... I’m sorry. And I’m here, if you want to talk.”

He turns his head away. “I don’t.”

Sam sighs. “Right. Right. I’ll just… leave you alone then.”

“Good.” Dean pushes aside his half-finished bowl. “I’m going to bed. Bank the fire when you’re ready to sleep.”

On his lonely mattress, he bundles himself in blankets and rolls to face the wall. The absence of Cas is a raw, gaping wound.

More weeks pass of edging around each other uncomfortably. Finally, Sam moves out.

Rowena is looking to take in a boarder, and Sam fits the bill. She has already designated him her new apprentice, much to his chagrin, and as she tells him and whoever will listen, she intends to work him hard to earn his keep.

On the day he is meant to leave, Sam stands in the centre of Dean’s cabin, and scratches his head. “Maybe I should stay,” he offers.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of Rowena MacLeod.” His voice is scratchy from disuse, his joke falling flat. He has done little in the last weeks, except float around the cabin with haunted eyes, disappearing into the woods for long hours each day to chop firewood, which Sam has been taking into town for him. Dean hasn’t ventured out of the woods. Sometimes, unbeknownst to Sam, he has sought out the clearing where Cas had crash-landed, sitting long hours in silence, trying to sense him, to bury his memory into his skin.

Sam’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I just don’t know if you should be alone right now.”

“I was alone a long time after you left. I can be alone now.”

Sam flinches, but still, he hesitates. “Are you—?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Dean brings his hand down hard on the wooden table. “Go. Get out. Just leave me in peace.”

Sam goes. And he stays gone.

Winter is long, and lingers longer still, biting cold giving way to a damp, muddy chill and grey days. Dean is alone. He chops wood alone, cooks alone, eats alone, sleeps alone. Castiel is never far from his mind. Even during his weekly trips into the village to deliver his firewood—with Sam gone, he has taken up this task again—he is essentially alone, an insurmountable chasm between him and the people he has always cared for.

Gradually, though, winter turns to spring, the last of the snow melts, the mud slowly dries, and Dean comes back, bit by bit, to the world of the living. Cas’s loss is still an icy fist around his heart, but he can talk to his friends again, can talk to Sam, even, as long as Castiel is never brought up. The brothers are careful with each other, cautious, but bit by bit, they are learning to be family again. Dean begins eating properly, and sleeping again, for all his arms always feel too empty.

He is surviving.

He never goes in Cas’s workroom. Several times he has hesitated with his hand on the door, but he can never bring himself to cross the threshold. He doesn‘t know if he could bear to stand in the same room where Cas gave and gave and gave of himself, until there was nothing left to give.

Sometimes, after another failed attempt to open the workroom door, he will retreat to Cas’s clearing. In the warm, late spring months, the space is carpeted by bluebells and anemones. He can easily picture Cas there, both as the man Dean knew, and as the angel he rescued—the one time _he _had done something for Cas, rather than the other way around.

He longs to do something for Cas now. To spend the rest of his days proving that Cas meant as much to him as he did to Cas. But there’s nothing else he can do for him now, so instead he prays.

Dean’s never been one for prayer, has never had any reason to have faith in God, but he’d always had faith in Cas.

Praying to Cas comes easier than expected. Dean knows there’s no way Cas is receiving them, but he pours out words of faith and trust and love, on the hope that, if somewhere in the universe, some small spark of Cas’s spirit remains, his prayers give it comfort, even joy.

“I should have given you more joy. I should have worked every day to make you happy. I hope wherever you are now, you’re happy.”

He comes back daily, and prays to Cas. Some days he talks about the past. Some days, he simply tells Cas about the flowers and the wildlife he sees in the woods, the bees he sees bumbling by. Little things that would make Cas happy. On the days after his visits to the village, he gives Cas updates on the lives of his friends.

And every day, he ends his prayer with the truths closest to his heart. “I miss you. I need you. I love you.”

Spring gives way to summer, gives way to fall, and all too soon there is frost on the ground again, each blade of grass rimed in silver. Still Dean goes to the clearing, his prayers to Cas tangible in the clouds of his breath.

When the first snow falls, he weeps. He remembers the first time he saw Castiel, and the last, bleeding in the snow both times.

He prays, the cold wind biting at the wetness on his cheeks.

“I think I knew, from the very moment I saw you, true form and all, that you would change my life. You were all starbright and—and magnificent—and I could feel you right down to my bones, like you became a part of me. And you were, Cas. You were the best part of me, and I failed you. I’ve tried to heal, to move on, but you took a piece of my heart with you. I’m doing better, I promise, but I’ll never stop missing you. I’ll never stop loving you. I love you.”

He blinks the moisture from his eyes, and swipes it from his cheeks. With a sigh, he climbs to his feet and begins his trek back to his cabin. When he arrives home, he does something new—he crosses the cabin, and hesitates only long enough to draw a deep breath, before he unlocks the workroom door.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but the room is still and silent, lit only by the light of the late afternoon sun that filters through the window. The half-burned stumps of candles still stand on the long wooden workbench. There are tools, stacked neatly to one side of the bench, and Dean’s leather apron hanging on a peg. Everything is blanketed in a layer of dust, rendering the edges soft. And in the centre of the bench, one thing catches Dean’s eye.

A feather.

One lone feather sits, brilliant blue and untouched by dust, in the centre of Cas’s workspace. With reverent fingers, Dean reaches out to stroke it. It’s soft like silk, the strands rippling like water under his barely there touch, and yet he knows it has the strength of steel.

It is all he has left of Castiel, and it is a fitting memento of the love of his life. Oh, so gently, he takes it in his hand and raises it to his lips, bestowing a kiss on it.

“Castiel,” he prays, and no more, because he is beyond words. _I miss you. I love you._

He wears the feather in a leather pouch about his neck, tucked under his clothes, keeping it close to his heart. Every day for a week, he brings it out when he prays to Cas, kneeling in the snow and whispering words of love.

On the seventh day, a storm picks up as he makes his way home from the clearing. Fat, white flakes dance thick and fast, and by the last stretch, the powder reaches his knees. By the time he lets himself into his door, the whole world is white and muffled.

The storm rages for some time, while Dean cooks and eats his evening meal, and settles in to whittle in front of a cozy fire. It must die down at some point, however, because eventually he becomes aware of silence, and curious, crosses his cabin to open the shutters.

The world outside is still and peaceful, the ground and all the trees covered in a moonlit blanket. It’s beautiful, and Dean could gaze at it for an eternity, breathing in the serene night, but just then, there is a knock on his door.

He frowns and closes the shutters. There is no reason for someone to be at his door, not after the storm that passed through earlier. No doubt the woods are still all but impassable. And yet—He crosses to the door and opens it, and then stands frozen.

He’s not sure whether to laugh or weep. He’s dreaming, of that he is certain.

Standing on his doorstep, limned by the light of the moon, is Castiel.

He regards Dean with kind, steady eyes, and Dean feels hot tears spring to his eyes.

“Cas?” His voice comes out in a croak.

The corner of Cas’s lips turns up in a crooked smile. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean collapses forward into Cas’s arms.

There are things Dean should do, tests he ought to run, to determine if Castiel truly is Castiel; Dean does not do any of them. He knows Castiel as well as he knows his own soul, and every beat of his heart proclaims that this is the love that he had so carelessly squandered, that somehow, miraculously, he has been granted a second chance.

“How?” he asks at long last, after finally releasing Castiel from his arms. He had not wanted to let go even then, his arms immediately bereft without Castiel within them.

Gently, kindly, so much more so than he deserves, Castiel takes his hands, leading them both to the bed to sit side-by-side. Dean clings tightly to the points of contact, warm and alive. Castiel looks good, whole and healthy and strong in a way he had not been for weeks before his death. Dean can’t look away from him.

“When angels die,” Castiel begins, “they are not taken to Heaven or Hell, as human souls are, nor to Purgatory with the monsters. The place angels go is not truly a place. It is simply… empty. It is eternal sleep. It is absence. Or it is meant to be.”

He strokes a thumb over a scar on the back of Dean’s left hand, a slow rhythmic swoop. A corner of his mouth quirks upwards.

“I am not like most angels. A part of me was tethered to this Earth, to a particular soul on this Earth. You and I are intertwined, Dean, and your soul would not let me go, would not let me slip easily into eternal slumber. Each time you prayed, I felt it, and bit by bit it woke me, called me home. "

Dean's hands tighten around Castiel's. "And you are glad of it, truly? You do not regret it?"

"Dean." Castiel's voice aches with tenderness. "My dearest heart. I am back with you. How could I ever regret it?"

"You could have gone anywhere. You could have been with anyone. But you came back here"—Dean's voice cracks—"to me. Even though I was selfish a-and stupid—"

"Dean, no," Castiel protests. "Never. You were never those things."

Dean shakes his head. His eyes are wet. "I knew something was wrong, Cas. _I knew. _I should have stopped things then, but I let you convince me, every time, even as you got sicker and sicker. _You died, _Cas, in my arms, because I wanted Sam back too badly to see what was happening to you."

Castiel lifts a soothing hand to the stubbled skin of Dean's cheek. "It was worth it, to give you your brother back."

"Not at that cost!" Dean shakes his head violently, dislodging Castiel's hand, and surges to his feet, agitation carrying him some steps away, where he stops, burying his fingers in his hair. When he speaks, it is without turning his head, his voice strained. "I never wanted to trade you for him. I've barely been able to look at him, since losing you. Didn't you understand what I told you all those times? I need you."

He lowers his hands and turns to face Castiel, face open, and Castiel meets his gaze, a soft look blooming across his features.

"I believe I am beginning to understand. Forgive me, Dean?"

Dean makes a watery sound, one he would normally be ashamed of, but here and now he can't begin to care. His heart is too full of Castiel. "I will forgive you," he says, "on one condition: you must not die again."

Castiel laughs, a low rumble of water over stones, and in two strides, they are in one another's arms, clinging as if they will never let go.

It is with trepidation that Dean knocks on Rowena’s door. It is not Dean’s usual delivery day, and he has not brought his sledge with him, but he thinks his friends in the village will forgive him. He has, after all, brought with him something far more precious.

As if sensing his nerves, Castiel lays a hand on his arm, warm and comforting in its solidity. Dean turns his head to smile into those earnest blue eyes, when the door swings open and a looming figure fills the doorway.

“Dean,” Sam says, surprise and confusion in his tone. He shakes his shaggy hair out of his eyes and goes still as he takes in Dean’s companion.

“Yoo hoo,” Rowena’s voice lilts from the direction of her workroom, “Samuel, who is it?”

Sam opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. Dean shrugs apologetically, and then the woman herself comes around the corner and stops short.

“Well,” she says, sounding immensely pleased. “Do come in and bring your angel with you.” She bustles everyone in the door, stopping Castiel with a warm squeeze of the hands. “It’s good to see you, Castiel.”

“It’s good to be back,” he responds, a smile in his voice. Every time Dean hears it, he feels as if his heart could burst from joy. He closes the door behind Castiel, stomping the snow from his boots.

Rowena hurries on ahead to the kitchen, calling out, “Fergus, fetch down the ginger biscuits. We’ve visitors for tea.”

Hanging back, Sam clears his throat. “So,” he begins, “Castiel…” he lapses into silence, seemingly at a loss for what to say.

“Sam,” Castiel rescues him. “It’s good to see you under better circumstances.”

That startles a laugh out of Sam and Dean both, and they glance at each other with an uneasy understanding. “That’s an understatement if I ever heard one,” Sam remarks. “I, uh…” He rubs at the back of his neck in a move reminiscent of his brother. “I owe you an immense debt. That thing I’d become…”

“You owe me nothing,” Castiel assures him. “I did what I did because I wished to see Dean happy, with his brother by his side.”

Sam glances between his brother and the angel. “He wasn’t happy though, not without you.”

Dean feels himself flush at the truth of his brother’s words. Castiel glances at Dean with a wry twist to his mouth. “A grave miscalculation on my part, as I have learned.”

Sam ducks his head, his shoulders hunching in, and Castiel frowns at his demeanor.

“But Sam,” he says, “you mustn’t think you aren’t also essential to your brother’s happiness. He spent years mourning you, and did all he could to bring you back.”

When Sam turns to look at Dean, there is still doubt written across his face, and that aches more than Dean would care to admit. Clearing his throat, he gruffly says, “It’s true. I know since you got back, I haven’t been…” He trails off, unable to express himself. “But it’s not because—it was just too new, too raw, too—”

“I understand,” Sam says, hazel eyes brimming with empathy. “After Jess, when you came back for me, there were days, weeks, when all I wanted to do was push you away. And you had nothing to do with her death. I can’t imagine—” He’s starting to sound choked up, and if he starts, Dean will too.

“Enough sentimentality,” Dean declares, and if there’s a rasp in his voice, then what of it?

Correctly sensing his mood, Castiel moves to grasp his hand. “I believe Rowena has biscuits for us in the kitchen. We shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

Still, it’s a slightly misty-eyed party that gathers around Rowena’s little wooden table. All except Fergus, who devours his gingerbread with impatient delight and then rushes off to play before his mother even gets a chance to scold him away from her magical stores. He barely even spares a glance for the newly resurrected Castiel, other than to side-eye him briefly and declare, “You were dead,” in a suspicious tone.

Far from being offended, Castiel glances after the child with a soft smile, and Dean shakes his head with amusement. He catches Sam’s eye as he sees him do the same.

“We’ve been trying to teach him manners,” Sam says ruefully. His long limbs are tucked awkwardly under the table, but oddly, he seems to fit in the small room.

“Oh, it’s we, is it?” Dean smirks, catching the implication. Sam colours, and Dean chalks up one point to himself.

“Oh, you are a nosy one, aren’t you?” Rowena scolds, but from the smile on her face, she’s entirely pleased with herself.

Much later, Dean and Castiel are curled together under a plush counterpane gifted to them by Ellen when Dean had brought Castiel by the inn to share the good news. A winter storm has blown up since they made it home to the cabin, bellies warm with Ellen’s finest stew and Meg’s ale. Outside, the wind moans low and mournful, and the cabin’s small window shudders from time to time in the gusts.

Inside, however, is cozy and warm. A fire crackles cheerfully in the hearth, casting the room in a golden glow, and Dean presses his forehead to Castiel’s, his eyes open to drink in his beautiful, beloved features. Castiel smiles, slow and small and secret, and tangles their fingers together. “My love,” he pronounces against Dean’s lips. “You need never fear losing me. Your prayers will always bring me back to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please be sure to give Correlia some love on the [Art Masterpost](https://correlia-be.tumblr.com/post/188510789546/i-will-hang-my-head-low-summary-dean-winchester), and consider reblogging the [Masterpost](https://deancasbigbang.tumblr.com/post/188521008725/title-i-will-hang-my-head-low-author).


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